Tressa found a space for Elian’s things by taking out three scarves she had not worn in years. Then she put the scarves back.
It was the third Saturday in October. He would be here in half an hour, and she had decided that the increasingly familiar bag beside her bedroom chair was an absurd arrangement. A drawer was not a proposal of marriage. Neither was it nothing. She had begun by making space and ended by wondering whether she was about to present him with another practical fact which concealed a question.
She shut the drawer and went downstairs.
The week between their Friday evening and this Saturday had been ordinary in ways she was beginning to value. She had swum twice, once alone. Elian had met her former colleague for coffee and disagreed with her about whether an old chestnut tree should have been removed from a nearby…
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