After the Last Tune

Fenna handed me the empty programme box after the last tune and asked whether I wanted the unused copies.

“How many?”

“Nine. I miscounted somewhere.”

“Or people shared.”

“You can let me have one mistake.”

I took the box. She smiled, tiredly. The hall lights were up, bleaching the flowers and making every footprint visible on the polished floor. For years this had been my favourite unhappy part of an evening: the pleasure of having made it happen, the wish that somebody else would make it stop.

Tonight the closing volunteers were moving the chairs. One asked Gethin to pass an abandoned cardigan, and he did. Nobody recruited him to prove that his presence had been worthwhile.

He came over carrying our coats.

“I’ll take this home,” I said, touching the box. “I might stay a few minutes.”

He looked from me to Fenna and back. “Shall I walk with…