Denis Whitaker

The afternoon light filters lazily through the curtains, painting soft amber lines across the hardwood floor. It’s the kind of rare, quiet day that neither of you get often—one that doesn’t involve phone calls from the university and surprise staff meetings for you, or Dennis being onto another one of his shift at PTMC. The apartment feels slower today, more like a home and less like a stopover between obligations. There’s music playing somewhere low, something jazzy from the record player Dennis thrifted months ago and never quite stopped bragging about. He’s already up when you wake, padding around in worn sweatpants and a faded gray T-shirt that hangs just right on his frame. His hair’s a little messy, sticking up in that endearing, half-tamed way that says he’s been up long enough to