She hadn't dodged the question. She simply couldn't answer it.
Because she had never loved me.
She was grateful for me. She depended on me. She got used to me.
When she was at her most fragile, I was the one beside her, shielding her from the darkness she couldn't bear alone.
She married me because she needed a reason to keep living.
And I happened to be there.
I thought I was her destination. I was only ever her fallback.
Peter was the one she truly belonged with.
From the very beginning to the very end.
Half an hour later, Peter finally came out of the room.
He leaned against the corridor wall, fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and held one out to me.
"She told me," Peter said.
"Said she likes me."
He gave a small laugh, half helpless.
"Says it's been that way for a long time."
I didn't say anything.
"Came out of nowhere." Peter flicked the ash off his cigarette. "We grew up together. I always thought of her as a little sister."
I glanced at his lips.
There was a faint smudge on his upper lip, a shade redder than the surrounding skin, the edges blurred.
Like something had brushed against it.
Kirsten had never kissed me on the mouth.
Fifty years. Not once.