The Window Table

“Before you order,” Lavinia said, “there’s something I need to say.”

Hugo put down the menu. He had risen when she arrived and waited while she chose the chair opposite him; now she regretted the table between them and was grateful for it in the same instant.

“All right.”

His bag stood by his feet. She could have asked about the move, the room, whether he had found somewhere to buy milk. Those questions would give her ten comfortable minutes in which to be the sort of woman who made things easier. She put her hands flat beside the menu instead.

“If this morning was awful, I can’t make it unhappen.”

“I haven’t asked you to.”

“I know. I’m saying it because I might try. Then I’d be waiting for you to look happy enough.”

He did not reassure her immediately. Beyond the window somebody was struggling to fold a pushchair; a spoon fell behind the counter. The café went on being a place where people ate lunch, leaving them to say the difficult part for themselves.

“This morning was sad,” he said. “It was also the morning I moved into my own room. Both are mine to live with.”

She looked at his bag. “Are you carrying everything you own?”

“A book and a jumper. I left the rest at home.”

Home. He said it without a flourish, and she found that more reassuring than a declaration of readiness.

“Your vows have finished.”

“Yes. The term ended yesterday. I left this morning as arranged.”

There was no obstacle for her to hide behind now. She could ask for time. She could get up. He had made room for both, and she liked him too much to use that room merely to avoid telling him what she wanted.

“I’d like this to be a date,” she said.

His expression opened. She would remember that afterwards, the plain pleasure arriving before he had thought of anything to say.

“So would I.”

She moved her chair to the corner of the small table. “And I’d like to kiss you. If you still want that.”

“Very much.”

He turned towards her. She touched his cheek first, almost surprised by the warmth of a person she had watched from a deliberate distance for so long. His hand settled over hers. He waited for her to come the remaining inch, and she did.

The kiss was gentle enough to make her impatient. Then he understood the way she leaned closer and kissed her again, less cautiously, his thumb moving once along her wrist. It was his familiar restraint changing into attention. She felt his quiet exhale against her cheek and the return of his mouth, warm and certain about this one thing.

She drew back to look at him. He was smiling in the astonished, rather undignified way she remembered from the song.

“Yes,” she said, although he had not asked another question.

“I was hoping that was the case.”

They kissed once more, briefly, because they were in a café and she was beginning to forget that other people might reasonably expect to use it. When she settled back in her chair he left his hand open beside hers. She put her fingers through his.

The server came with a polite expression that pretended no time had passed. They had ordered nothing. Lavinia laughed and asked for soup; Hugo asked for the same, then changed his mind to a sandwich.

“You’re allowed a different lunch,” she told him when they were alone again.

“I was distracted.”

“That’s a better excuse.”

He looked at her mouth. She felt heat rise beneath her collar and was delighted to discover she could still blush at thirty-six without becoming somebody younger or less competent. She had processed a whole depot’s pay errors yesterday. Today a man could look at her and make her forget whether she had asked for tea.

They ate slowly. The soup was too hot, his sandwich insufficiently cut, and neither problem required emotional interpretation. He told her about carrying his books up the narrow stairs that morning. She told him about Benita’s assertion that no important decision should be made in uncomfortable shoes, which had caused her to change twice before leaving home.

“Are those comfortable?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then we could walk afterwards.”

“We could.”

They paid separately after a brief negotiation in which he offered lunch and she said she would like to buy her own today. He accepted that without converting it into a statement about their entire future. Outside, he held out his hand again.

She took it.

The riverside path was busy. They had to separate to let a bicycle pass, then found each other again without discussing it. The ease was new; the person was not. Hugo still paused before a precise answer. Lavinia still made a joke when she wanted too much. What had changed was that she could brush her thumb over his knuckle while he thought, and he could smile at the interruption.

At a low wall they stopped to watch a dog refuse to return a ball. The owner tried reason, authority and another ball. The dog accepted the second and retained the first.

“An excellent negotiator,” Lavinia said.

“Poor long-term strategy.”

“You don’t know. He may retire undefeated.”

Hugo laughed, then looked at the time. She recognised the movement and felt the afternoon begin to close by habit.

“I should let you go,” he said.

“Should you?”

“You may have plans.”

“I don’t. Do you?”

He looked at his watch again, this time as though it contained an incorrect instruction. “No. I usually start back about now.”

“Do you want another hour?”

He turned to her fully. “Yes. Would you stay?”

“Yes.”

She liked that they had both asked. She liked that neither had to make the hour useful.

They bought tea from a kiosk and sat on a bench too low for his legs. He told her about a novel he had abandoned halfway through, and she disagreed with his reason. She told him about the red coat she had nearly given away and then worn every winter since. Their shoulders touched because there was no reason to keep them apart, and eventually she put her head against him for a minute.

He kissed her hair after she tilted towards him. Nothing rang to end it. Eventually they were cold and went home because they wanted warmth and supper, which was a less dramatic and more satisfactory reason.

At the bridge they arranged Wednesday evening, a walk after work. He did not say the date proved anything about his departure. She did not ask whether she had made the day worth having.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

“I’m glad I said yes.”

She kissed him goodbye. This time he drew her a little nearer when she put her hands on his shoulders, and she went home with the distinct memory of being wanted by a man who was free to ask for another hour.