Saturday arrived grey and still.
I woke early again. It was becoming a habit, this early waking, like my body had decided that sleep was a luxury that did not fit the current situation. I lay there for a few minutes looking at the ceiling and thinking about the sitting room the night before. The fire going low. Damien with his tea and his tired eyes. That quiet hour that had not been arranged or performed or written into any contract.
I thought about the way he had looked at me when I glanced up.
Then I stopped thinking about it because thinking about it led somewhere I was not ready to go.
I got up.
The house was quiet at that hour. Grey light through the windows. The kind of morning that asks nothing of you except to move slowly through it. I made tea in the kitchen and stood at the
