The Two Plates

Meriel came home with a sunburnt nose, a cracked mug wrapped in a sock and an immediate desire to move the kettle six inches to the left. Anouk watched her do it and understood, with a pang that was nobody’s fault, that the flat had stopped being hers.

“The table survived,” she said.

“I never doubted you.”

“You sent three messages.”

“Affectionate messages.”

Meriel set down the rucksack and embraced her. She smelled of travel, clean soap layered over a long day, and Anouk hugged her hard. It was good to have her back. That did not make the small loss imaginary.

They sat at the kitchen table with tea. Meriel told stories that had not fitted into calls: a room with a spectacular view and a shower that required optimism, a woman she’d walked with for two days, the afternoon she’d abandoned the planned route because her feet had…