# The Hand That Stayed

*THE MISSING CREDIT · An imagined October 18 scene*

She had asked him to leave the lamp on.

Not for reading. The book lay closed on the piano, keeping its place without either of them.

The lamp made a small country of the bench. His sleeve, her sleeve. A thumb moving over the soft place between two knuckles.

For a while, the House had the decency to remain a house.

She leaned her shoulder against his.

Outside, rain collected the city into long, trembling lines. Inside, one low note had almost finished sounding.

He pressed her hand gently.

She pressed back.

Later, she stood to find her coat.

He watched the place where the light had caught her wrist. He liked that there would be another time to notice it.

From the doorway she said his name.

He turned a little.

She had both hands at her collar, holding the coat closed against the cooler air in the hall.

Neither of them spoke.

His thumb was still moving.

She looked from his face to the low space beside him.

“Who are you holding?”

The question was quiet. She had used that voice earlier when she asked whether he wanted the window shut.

He looked down.

The hand in his was warm.

He knew the little fold of fabric at the wrist. He had smoothed it with his thumb. He knew how the fingers rested in his palm.

But the sleeve went the wrong way.

It crossed the empty part of the bench and descended into the dark beneath the piano.

In the doorway, both her hands remained against her coat.

He stopped stroking the knuckles.

For a moment nothing happened.

Then the hand gave the same small answering pressure.

Exactly the same.

She took one step toward him.

“Look at me,” she said.

He tried.

The lamp stayed on.