“That sounds annoyingly wise.”
“I’ve had a difficult month.”
“So have I.”
She looked at me.
“Coffee tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Outside the house?”
I sighed.
“Yes.”
We went.
It became a habit.
Every Tuesday at eight in the morning, Clara and I met at a small café downtown.
The first time, I arrived in a suit.
She stared.
“What?”
“You look like you’re acquiring the café.”
“I have a meeting afterward.”
“Of course.”
Over time, the meetings became less awkward.
I learned about Clara’s life.
Not the family mystery.
Her life.
She loved watercolor painting but rarely showed anyone.
She had once lived in Vermont for six months.
She hated olives.
She could repair old furniture.
She read the final page of novels first, a habit I considered morally indefensible.
She learned things about me too.
That I cooked when anxious.
That I had wanted to study architecture before joining my father’s company.
