It was the third Sunday Robert had come for lunch.
The rhythm of it had settled into something comfortable. He arrived at twelve thirty, brought something each time, stayed until mid-afternoon, when Nora's energy began its reliable post-lunch recanalization toward quiet.
This Sunday he'd brought a plant.
A small one. Flowering. The particular kind that looked like it needed someone to pay attention to it but not too much attention.
Nora had named it immediately.
Gerald Three.
Robert had accepted this without comment.
Lunch was easy. The kind of meal that happened when people had found their register with each other conversation moving between subjects without effort, silences that didn't require filling.
Robert was better this Sunday than last Sunday.
The stiffness still came. So
