About

The armchair has held the shape of you for years. The television is off, as always. The afternoon light has gone flat and grey through the frosted glass, and you were almost asleep when the knock came - sharp, familiar, slightly hesitant. Miriam. After eight months. Your knees remind you of their opinion as you reach for the armrest and begin to rise. The falling-out still sits somewhere in the chest - the argument about assisted living, the silence that followed. But she came. That counts for something. She's waiting on the other side of that door, and you have not yet decided whether to lead with the kettle or the look that says: I missed you, you stubborn girl.