She came back from Asheville on the second of January and he was waiting in her parking lot.
Not dramatically. He wasn't leaning against the building with his arms crossed in the way of someone making a statement. He was sitting on the hood of his truck -- he had a truck, she had recently learned, that he drove in winter when ice made the bike unreasonable -- drinking coffee from a thermos and reading something on his phone. Just present. Just there.
She pulled in beside him and got out. He looked up.
"How was Asheville?"
"Cold. Profitable. The law firm tipped well."
"Good."
She leaned against the truck beside him. It was early, the January light thin and pale, the street empty. Her breath made small clouds.
"You didn't have to wait."
"I know."
"How long have you been here?"
"A w
