Alexander chose Saturday.
That was how I knew he believed this could still be fixed.
Saturday carried a particular illusion, unrushed hours, softened edges, the idea that intention could substitute for decision. He had always trusted timing more than truth.
I woke to the scent of tea before I heard him move.
By the time I entered the kitchen, the table was set with care that felt almost ceremonial. Flowers I liked but hadn’t asked for. Breakfast arranged the way it used to be, when repetition passed for closeness and memory was mistaken for presence.
“Good morning,” he said, smiling like a man rehearsing optimism.
“Good morning,” I replied.
“I thought we could spend today together,” he said lightly. “No work. No interruptions.”
I poured my tea. “You should have asked.”
He blinked.
