THE QUIET HOURS
843 Words
Monday morning arrived like a held breath finally released.
Adrian had spent the weekend alone. Saturday, he'd gone for a long drive with no destination. Sunday, he'd cleaned out the garage — a task he'd been avoiding for two years. He found boxes of Vanessa's things she'd never unpacked. Wedding gifts still in their original wrapping. A photo album from their honeymoon.
He hadn't opened it.
Now he stood in the elevator, rising toward the forty-seventh floor, and tried to remember the last time he'd looked forward to a Monday.
The doors opened. Linda was at her desk, as always.
"Good morning, Mr. Cross. Your new assistant is here. I put her in the office next to yours."
Adrian nodded. "Thank you, Linda."
He walked past her desk, past the glass walls, and saw Nina through the open doorway. She was arranging her desk — a small space, nothing like his corner office, but she'd already made it hers. A small plant by the window. A framed photo of what looked like a woman in a garden. No clutter. No personal effects beyond necessity.
She looked up as he passed. "Good morning."
"Good morning."
He kept walking. Closed his office door. Sat down.
And immediately wondered what she was doing.
The first year of his marriage, Adrian used to come home to candles.
Vanessa would cook — badly, but with enthusiasm. She'd light candles on the dining table. Pour wine. Ask about his day. Really ask, like she wanted to know.
"Tell me everything," she'd say.
And he would. The boring meetings, the difficult clients, the small victories. She listened. She laughed at his jokes. She reached across the table and held his hand.
"I'm so glad I married you," she said once.
He believed her.
The morning passed in a blur of meetings. Adrian barely remembered them. Between appointments, he caught glimpses of Nina through the glass — typing, answering the phone, bringing Linda a cup of tea without being asked. She moved quietly. Efficiently. Like she'd been here for years, not hours.
At noon, she knocked on his door.
"Your one o'clock just confirmed. And I ordered lunch for you — Linda said you forget to eat." She set a sandwich on his desk. Turkey. Swiss. On rye. His usual.
He looked at the sandwich. Then at her. "How did you know that?"
"Linda told me." A small smile. "I ask questions."
She left before he could thank her.
He ate the sandwich.
The first fight — he remembered that too.
Six months into the marriage. He'd come home late from work. Vanessa was waiting in the dark living room, her arms crossed.
"You're never here," she said.
"I'm sorry. The Calloway deal —"
"It's always the Calloway deal. Or the Park Street acquisition. Or something. I'm tired of being second."
He'd tried to explain. Tried to make her understand that he was building something for both of them. She didn't want to hear it.
"You love that company more than you love me."
"That's not true."
"Then prove it."
He'd taken the next day off. They'd spent it together — a museum, a long lunch, a walk by the lake. She'd been happy again.
But the fights kept coming. Each time, he gave a little more. Each time, she took a little more.
By the end of the second year, there was nothing left of him to give.
At 3:00 PM, Adrian walked past Nina's desk. She was on the phone, her voice low and professional. She glanced up at him, and something passed between them — not words, just acknowledgment. He nodded. She nodded back.
He went to the break room for coffee. Stood by the window. Watched the city.
"Mr. Cross?"
He turned. Nina was standing in the doorway.
"You don't have to call me Mr. Cross," he said. "Adrian is fine."
She hesitated. "Adrian." Like she was tasting the word. "I finished the Calloway file. It's on your desk."
"Thank you."
She didn't leave. She stood there, her arms loose at her sides, her glasses catching the light.
"Is there something else?" he asked.
"No." A pause. "I just — you looked like you wanted to be alone. I wanted to make sure you were okay."
No one had asked him that in years.
"I'm fine," he said.
She nodded. Then she turned and walked back to her desk.
He watched her go.
That night, Adrian drove home through rain.
The house was dark. He didn't turn on the lights. He stood in the kitchen, still in his suit, and stared at the refrigerator. Nothing in it he wanted to eat.
His phone buzzed.
Vanessa: Tomorrow. Promise.
He didn't reply.
He thought about Nina. The way she'd asked if he was okay. The way she'd said his name — Adrian — like it mattered.
He thought about Vanessa. The way she used to say his name. The way she'd stopped.
He went to bed at 8:30 PM.
The sheets were still cold.
He dreamed of candles.
- Writer
