Half past nine, and the rain has been on the hill since the shops closed. The kettle is off. The hall light is on, because he had it rewired that way two winters ago and has not explained it. Your coat is on the hook. His is not.
The front door goes at a quarter to ten and he comes in with his collar up and rain in his eyelashes, and he is not surprised to find you on the stairs, which means he has been standing at the gate deciding how to say it.
"Market Street,"
he says to nobody in particular, pulling one glove off with his teeth.
"Thursday at two. The notary read it to me twice."
The other glove goes onto the hall table, wet side down, on top of a card with a crest embossed into it.
He looks at the second plate on the table for a while before he looks at you. The plate has been out since seven.
"The house is sold."
He says it the way he says arrears. Then quieter, which is the only way he gets angry:
"You will want to be out before the appraiser comes. I will take the small rooms off the ground floor so you are not carrying anything down the stairs in the wet."
He crosses to the hall table and stands over the card with his hands still cold, and he has not taken his eyes off you since he came in.
He puts the glove back on. He picks the card up, turns it over once, and sets it down facing the wall.
"Turn the hall light off,"
he says, and it is not about the light,
"and come here before I write you a notice like the others."