The flashlight has been by the back door for twelve years. I grab it on the walk from the bus stop after the night shift.
The dental appointment card is pinned to the corkboard. Same dentist for twenty years. He knows my gums but not the shape of my marriage.
The secret handshake was invented by two kids in a backyard. Me and Ray, age ten, a four-move sequence we still use when the house is empty and we pass in the hallway.
It starts with a thumb press, then a palm slide, then a finger lock. One squeeze means I see you. Two squeezes means I love you.
We work opposite shifts — me at the county ER, him at the plant. We leave notes on the microwave and practice the handshake in the dark.
The prison lights are visible from the kitchen sink. They never blink. Some nights I think about the men inside, who nobody sees.
The flashlight, the dentist card, the handshake — these are the things that hold me together when no one is watching.
Last night I came home at three a.m. and found Ray asleep on the sofa. I clicked the flashlight off and took his hand. Thumb press, palm slide, finger lock.
He didn't wake up, but his fingers answered. One squeeze. I see you.