When we were nine, Gabe and I invented a handshake. Slap, bump, twist, bow. Stupid and perfect. It followed us through twenty-two years and one marriage.
We kept adding moves as we grew. A spin at fifteen, when he first kissed me. A dip at twenty-four, the night we moved into our place.
The coin jar on the bookshelf is half full of lira and pesetas from Italy. We promised we'd go back and empty it together. It's staying half full.
I watched the season finale alone last Thursday. Kept turning to say something to the empty cushion beside me. The quiet after the credits was enormous.
My right hand still starts the sequence sometimes. Slap, bump. Then I fold my fingers into my palm and hold on.
But yesterday at the park, a girl taught her friend a handshake. Tongue out, concentrating so hard. I watched until they got it right.
I wasn't sad. I was remembering what it felt like to believe someone would always reach back.