Saturday, with its long hallways. We stood in the showroom choosing between dove and sandstone, holding squares of future against the light. The banana was for you— you who names every color aloud as if saying it makes it stay. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Outside, the harbor sat still under a sky that had forgiven everything. I want to tell you about the rooms we almost chose, the lives that fit us like carpet samples— close enough to walk on but never quite the right pile. The spa brochure is still in the car. The afternoon is still in the afternoon. You are asleep now, your hand open, holding all the space a Saturday can hold.