Our first night together, we told the stories of how we had met in 1943: the flat with rain-cracked ceilings and the little wrought-iron balcony, the typewriter we shared, the Atlantic crossings; he heard me singing for the USO, the shy stranger with the sounding-blue eyes I saw splicing and editing the broadcasts. Both of us Odysseus and Penelope, meeting at the story of the bed we lay in.
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I could taste this. I am so happy for you both.