I slide open the sliding door to the backyard to relay a message from my mother to my kid brother, and then stand there in the doorframe, just stand there in the late afternoon for a while. It’s almost almost about to rain. What the almost feels like is that moment after you’ve first met someone you want to meet again and again, the moment after you’ve had your first and unremarkable conversation, the soft lowslung thrill of mutual recognition when you look at each other, that feeling of still anticipation before it turns into gutchurning nausea. The sun is warm on my face, and alongside it the breeze is cool, almost cold, sneaking promises of rain up my sleeves, like fingertips before they become kisses.