The Seventh Turn

Blythe missed the third turn because she was thinking about Keir’s bed.

The rose bells faded at their edges. She swore, went back and held them until the colour steadied. The correction took twenty minutes. By the time she reached the sixth turn she was tired, and by the seventh she was furious with herself for behaving as though pleasure ought to make her less good at the thing she had practised for eighteen years.

It was Thursday. Since Sunday she had spent one night at his house and he had spent one at hers. Neither had abandoned any work. They were sleeping less. She disliked that the first consequence of happiness appeared to be inefficient mornings.

Keir knocked just as she finished.

“I brought supper,” he said.

“You are nearly an hour late.”

He looked at the clock through the kitchen door.

“We said nine.”

They had said nine.…