He can’t help it. She pours him a glass of wine and hands it to him.“The cottage looks good.”“Thanks. You hungry? I made a salad,” she says.“No, I had a lobster roll on the way over. Wine is good. Here, I brought you this.” He hands her a small, white paper bag.“Aunt Leah’s,” she says, smiling, shaking the bag, knowing even before she opens it and sees the hunk of chocolate fudge.“You look good,” he says.“You, too.”He does. He’s wearing a plaid, cotton, button-down shirt, unbuttoned and untucked over a gray T-shirt, jeans, and black, Italian leather shoes. His hair, black but graying at his temples and in his sideburns, is much longer than he used to wear it. Thick and straight when it’s short, this new length, uncombed and tousled, reveals its natural waves and cowlicks. She likes it.Everything else is the same David. His olive skin, his dark-rimmed glasses, his pronounced Adam’s apple, his brown eyes, like hers but blacker. Like Anthony’s. Then she notices his hands, his bare hands.
