I put the final macaron in an eggcup and place it gingerly on the top of the cake as the bell over the door chimes an entrance. I know it is Pete letting himself in. I have started to know his walk, the sound of the fall of his feet. Things I hadn’t noticed before but which became familiar to me during those long days of silence. “Wow. This place looks amazing. How long did it take you?” I come out of the kitchen and see his hair is still wet from a shower, face flushed from a morning jog. I had planned on a few streamers, but once I got started I couldn’t stop. You can barely see the walls for crepe paper, hung in strips, as if it is carnival time in Rio. Dozens of balloons bloom in bunches, and the tables are covered in luminous lipstick pink fabric I bought at Three Lamps. “A little while. Do you think it’s too … bright?” Pete picks up a polka-dot balloon from the floor and fixes it to a cluster in the middle of a table. “I think it’s wonderful. I think she’ll love it.”
