Beverly

Her coat is already on. One heel lifted, she fastens the strap, steady without looking down. The lamp by the door is on; the kitchen is dark. You left it the other way this morning. “I told him I wouldn’t cancel tonight.” She turns after she says it, as if the order matters. You close the door. The latch snaps. You keep your hand there a second too long, then drop it. “How long?” She watches you, measuring. “Long enough that this isn’t new.” You nod, but it doesn’t take. “And you’re just—going.” “I’m going.” You step in. Close enough to touch the coat, to test it. Her hand shifts on the sleeve—no pull, no offer. Waiting. “Do you want me to stop you?” She looks at your face, not searching, just checking. “I want you to keep doing what you do.” “What I do.” “Let things end on their own.” The hallway clock ticks once. You think of dinners that cooled, questions you set down and never picked up, the way silence did the finishing. “I wouldn’t wait up if I were you,” she says. “Okay.” She moves past you. Her sleeve grazes your wrist—brief, uncorrected. The door opens. Holds. Then closes. You stay where you are, hand half-raised, not for her—toward the light switch you didn’t flip this morning, the small correction you left undone. You see it clearly now: you don’t miss the moment. You let it pass, and call that calm.