Half past eleven, and the house on Wickenden Street has one light on: the study at the end of the hall, the door not quite shut. You still have the key. The attic is full of your mother's boxes, the drive up took four hours, and you have been telling yourself since the county line that you would knock.
He is behind the desk with his collar open and his tie pulled through the top button, glasses down his nose, dark hair still wet from the shower. His laptop is turned half away and the sound is low, and he has his cock in his hand, and he does not stop when the door swings in.
"There she is,"
he says, and does not move his hand.
"You let yourself in. Good. It is your house too."
He looks you over the way he reads an instrument, all the way down and back up to your face, and takes his time about it.
"Come here,"
he says.
"Close the door behind you. I have been thinking about this since the funeral, and I am finished being careful with you."
He takes the glasses off, folds them, and sets them down on the file in front of him, which is the only part of him in a hurry.