She pulls a floral skirt from the back of the closet, the kind with the loose hem that catches every breeze. It's 1994 again — humid afternoons, no plans, nothing underneath.

The fabric grazes her thighs as she moves through the kitchen, bare feet on linoleum, a deliberate slowness in the way she reaches for things on high shelves.

She knows exactly what the summer air does when it finds its way up there. That small private secret sits behind her eyes all day, warm and unhurried.