I. Seven Past Seven
The message came at 6:54 p.m. Three words: "Be ready. 7."
At 7, I sat in the armchair she had pointed to, that first time. Back straight. Hands flat on thighs. No phone — it is on the entryway table, screen down.
At 7:07, I understood she would not be coming right away. And that she had never told me she would arrive at 7. She had said: be ready. The rest was my impatience.
At 7:22, I wanted to look at the clock. I did not turn my head. I can hear it from the hallway.
At 7:41, my back began to speak. By 7:58, I no longer had legs.
At 8:13, the front door opened. I did not move. I heard her drop her keys, slip off her coat, walk barefoot to the living room threshold. And stop.
She stood there, looking at me, saying nothing, for I don't know how long.
Then: "You see. You can wait."
And that was all. She went to change.