Blythe chose the chair facing the door and regretted it at once.
It made waiting too obvious. She considered moving, then remained where she was because rearranging furniture to conceal a feeling had begun to seem a tiresome way to live.
Keir arrived early. His coat sleeve bore her small neat repair.
She looked at it before she looked at his face.
“You came,” she said, then disliked herself for making it sound surprising.
“Yes.”
He sat. There was no bag beside him, no flower, no bright thing tucked in his hand. She had not realised until that moment how much she had hoped he would bring nothing.
The woman from the eating house came to their table.
“Pie?”
“Yes,” Blythe said.
“Both?”
Keir nodded.
The woman placed the mustard pot firmly between them and left.
Blythe looked at it. Keir looked at her.
They nearly laughed. Neither quite did.…
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