Chapter 23: Both

She came back on Friday nights now, and she left on Mondays.

On Saturday morning I stood at the kitchen counter making two cups of coffee, and I did not ask her anything.

I had learned how.

I measured the grounds and listened to the floorboards upstairs.

She came down in my flannel shirt with her hair loose and her feet bare.

A cord hung around her neck.

It held the iron key and her mother's thin gold wedding band.

The lawyer had returned the ring from the folder, where Martha had left it.

Iris wore it under her shirt, and I had never mentioned it.

"Coffee," I said, and set her cup on the counter.

"Thank you."

She took it to the window and drank it looking at the yard.

I leaned against the stove and watched her.

I had watched her every morning for four years and never once let her see me do it.

Now she knew.

"You're staring," she said, without turning around.

"Yes."

"You can stop if you want."

"I don't want to."

She almost smiled.

"I leave Monday," she said.

"I know."

"You haven't asked when I'm coming back."

"I'm not allowed."

"I'm allowing it." She turned. "Ask."

My mouth went dry.

It was the simplest question in the world, and I had made it into a lock.

"When are you coming back?"

"Thursday night."

"All right."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"No soon? No we'll see?"

"You said Thursday."

She put her cup on the counter and walked over to me.

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