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Summary
She nudges Ciara under the table. “Until we are old and gray.”
It is difficult for Ciara to imagine either of them as wrinkled as Lileas, but especially Nia. Ciara looks at her across the table: her hair mussed from its roller-made curls, her face bare, no pretty cosmetics to be level with a man allowed to live as-is, her silk robe like a second skin. This isn’t the Nia who Ciara had met and fallen for years ago; time has passed and made her older innately, made her wiser by her political pursuits. But she’s still Nia. Like she will be when her hair has lost its gloss and her skin its smoothness. Ciara thinks of the privilege of time, the privilege of having met someone as remarkable as Nia—the privilege of a requited love—and is struck by a pang so unbearable she has to set her fork down.