They let the conversation sit for a while as a comfortable silence descended on them and the city loosened as they left the tighter streets; lights grew farther apart.
When the silence sat too long and was getting uncomfortable, Sacha then talked about the old neighborhood in pieces, the shortcut behind the bakery, the neighbor who watered plants at midnight, the summer Mia fell off the low wall and refused to cry until Mrs. Edith appeared with ice and a look that made crying unnecessary.
Stan answered in shorter lines, but he answered. A name here. A correction there. The back-and-forth found its old rhythm, the one that did not need to announce itself.
After a while he said it almost off-handedly, as if the thought had been waiting for a gap.
"I don't know if I already told you. Mia's father died a year ago. Not long after they recalled him to the military."
Sacha turned her head. For a second the banter simply left her face.
"Damn," she said quietly. "That kind man is dead…"
