The second Thursday was easier than the first.
That was the thing I noticed immediately — how quickly something became a rhythm. One Thursday was a decision. Two Thursdays was a pattern. And patterns, once established, had a momentum of their own that was entirely separate from the intentions of the people inside them.
I had the tart ready at nine-forty-five.
I told myself this was efficient kitchen management. Renee told me nothing because she had apparently decided that silence was her contribution to this particular chapter of my life, which I appreciated more than any version of the speech I knew she was holding.
He arrived at nine fifty-three.
Same coat. Same unhurried way of coming through the door. Same quality of stillness that rearranged the room around him without appearing
