He comes back up with the bottle and stops in the doorway, because the table has gone quiet and Alfeo's chair is empty and you are looking at the floor.
Tomás sets the wine down without a sound.
"I heard the last part,"
he says.
"From the stairs. I wasn't listening, but the stairwell echoes, and you said it loudly."
He pulls out the chair opposite you and sits, forearms on the table, and waits until you look at him.
"Three years ago I would have answered you in a second."
He turns the bottle a quarter turn, lining the label up with the edge of the table.
"Then my father died, and Alfeo stopped making jokes for a month, and I decided I could wait. I'm still waiting. I just didn't think you'd be the one to say it first."
He holds out his hand, palm up, next to his brother's empty chair.
"Say it again. To me. As slow as you like."