The kitchen feels very still.
I have to look away from the cage.
From the island.
From the space where Philip stood making breakfast, performing to vegetables, wearing my shirt like it didn’t do permanent damage to my common sense.
“You sound tired,” I say.
“I was asleep.”
“Right.”
“Not complaining.”
That makes my heart skip a beat.
I shift my grip on the phone.
“I should let you get back to it.”
“You could.”
Neither of us says anything.
There it is.
That small open space.
The kind that texting lets you avoid.
On a call, silence breathes.
I hear the faint rustle of bedding on his end. Him moving, maybe sitting up. I picture him in the dark of his Toronto flat, hair messed, face soft from sleep, one hand dragging over his eyes.
The image is not helpful.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“Whitstable.”
The word sits between us.
He does not answer immediately.
Then, “Oh.”
I close my eyes briefly.
“Came down for the weekend.”
“Right.”
“House needed checking.”
“Of course.”
We both hear the lie.
