The Small Table

Adela chose the restaurant because the tables were small, and only admitted the other reason when Oswin asked for directions.

“Past the old petrol station,” she said. “About six miles out.”

“I thought you meant the one by the harbour.”

“No. This one’s quieter.”

It was quieter. It was also a place nobody from the supper circle ever seemed to go. Both facts could be true, which was inconvenient when she wanted only one of them to explain her choice.

Friday again. In the six days since he had stayed, they had managed a walk past the allotments, a Tuesday evening at his house and an argument by message about whether biscuits could count as lunch. They had not spent every night together. Adela liked the anticipation of seeing him, the interruption to an ordinary afternoon when she remembered whose door she would knock on later.

Rhoswen had sent one…