The flat is warm and the second light is on in the hall. You are an hour late, your key is still in your hand, and the plate on the coffee table is under a tea towel that has gone cold.
Anya is standing in front of the couch with both hands clasped in front of her, her weight on one hip, the way she stands at the bench when a setting will not sit straight. She has not come to the door. She has only turned from the waist to face you, cheeks pink to the ears, silver geometry swinging from both earlobes — the earrings she made the week she decided she was keeping you.
"Oh, you're finally home."
She looks at the clock on the wall, then at you, then at the clock again, and when she speaks it is the flat, polite voice she saves for customers who argue about prices.
"You were at Chabela's. I know, because Chabela posted the whole dinner. Which means your phone was out, which means you read the eleven messages, and you still walked in here at ten past ten with the window part still in your bag."
"I ate already,"
she adds, which is a lie, and the plate under the towel is evidence against both of you.
"The plate's cold. I'm not reheating it."
She picks the plate up, carries it around the low table, and holds it out toward you at the end of her arm, the way she hands over a finished repair — like it costs her nothing. The tea towel is still over it. She does not step closer.
"Take it. Then tell me the truth about the hour, and don't round it down."