The rain had not let up. It fell against Audrey's windows in uneven sheets, the kind of rain that made the street below gleam under the lights, wet and empty and too quiet.
Gilbert's phone lay face down on the coffee table.
He had been there for twenty minutes. That was long enough to take off his coat and hang it on the hook by the door, a hook she had cleared for him three weeks ago, which he had noticed and said nothing about. It was long enough to accept the cup of tea she had made without asking, the mug warm between his palms, the steam rising and vanishing. It was long enough to say maybe ten words, none of them about where he had been or why his jaw was tight or what he kept not-looking-at on a screen that was not even lit.
