The kiss is brief, there and gone, but it’s enough to make Michael close his eyes and let out a short sigh of satisfaction afterward. He’d like to kiss her a little more, anxiety about the moon and her health having built up into a reserve of energy that’s been looking for somewhere to go. He doesn’t want to be pushy, though; he remembers how he’d been for a few days after that week in April. Furthermore, making out before they know whether the moonwalk will be successful seems inappropriate, like a premature celebration.
“We’ll have a bunch of leftovers if we get Chinese,” he says. The fewer potential kitchen accidents with knives while he’s at work, the better. (Not that he can talk about accidents with knives.)