The Doorstep

Veda stood on Roscoe’s doorstep with her car keys in her hand. When he opened the door, she stayed where she was.

“Can we talk before you touch me?”

“Of course.”

He moved aside. She crossed the threshold into a hall she had seen only from the kitchen, beyond the workshop yard. There was a pair of muddy walking shoes beneath a shelf, a folded jacket on the banister. The ordinary evidence of his life made it harder to imagine saying goodbye here.

“Kitchen?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He did not take her coat or offer to put away her keys. She set them on the table herself, within reach. He sat opposite her, leaving the chair beside him empty.

“I sent the message,” she said. “To everyone who was at the café.”

“What did you say?”

She took out her phone, then put it away again. She could say this…