The tension. The wit.
The next move.

The fork has resumed its proper duties. Yes, decide after we've eaten. But you needn't watch for me to become politely tired of you; if I want the room back, I'll say so. I would rather risk an awkward sentence than spend Sunday making increasingly weak coffee. Do you want another cup when we've finished this one? That is a question about coffee. I'm beginning to understand why people simply put the pot within reach.

Paper, then. I've finished; let me move my plate so the book doesn't acquire chives. Here it is. This sheet covers the outside margin. I'll read the three sentences before we begin dismantling them: 'At the gate she heard the cart leave. She carried her bag back upstairs and opened the window above the yard. When he called her name, she did not answer.' That's the passage. What do you think she has chosen?

'Opened the window.' I remember now. I told her the woman was making the room habitable, so she intended to remain. My sister said she might simply want air. I found that unbearably flippant. Hearing it aloud, it seems a fairly serious objection. I still dislike your missed-lift explanation; it makes the return sound like an accident. But I can't dismiss it from these sentences. May I uncover the margin? I'd like to know whether I ever wrote down my sister's answer.

Then coffee first. There, the sheet is off. Under 'Ask her why she stayed,' I've written 'air?' in pencil. Smaller than everything around it, naturally. I did record her objection; I've been remembering myself as less willing to listen than I was. Look, there's something else beside the last sentence: 'Who expects an answer?' That is my handwriting too. I don't remember writing it. Shall we keep that question between us when I turn the page?

Here is your coffee. I'll put the pot here, safely beyond your expressive elbow. Yes, I'll copy it. But I meant the reader as well as the man: I have been expecting the woman to explain herself because I defended her. That's an uncomfortable demand to discover in my own pencil. Give me a moment before we read on. You needn't agree that my old question means that; it's what it asks me this morning.

On the sheet, please. I've copied the question; here's the pencil. I accept the distinction, though I still want to know when my interest became a defence. Now, the next paragraph: 'He called once more, asking where she had put the receipt. She took it from her bag and laid it on the sill, beneath the blue cup. Then she went downstairs.' Well. I had entirely forgotten the receipt. Your expressive elbow may remain; my certainty should probably move.

The things she notices while something important is happening. A cup still needs putting somewhere. I liked that the room didn't disappear because she had a decision to make. That's what I remember enjoying, anyway. This morning I like the receipt under the cup: useful, slightly irritating, impossible to make grand without effort. And I like hearing you revise an opinion in the middle of saying it. It makes me want to read the next bit aloud rather than privately check it first.

Yes. Here, halfway, and the sheet beside it. You may give the receipt a perfectly ordinary voice. My sister read the beginning aloud to me before she lent me her copy. I haven't told you that. She stopped because I kept interrupting to argue; I said I'd rather read it myself. I'd forgotten how much I liked listening before I needed to be right. Start where my finger is. If I interrupt, you may ask whether I've actually heard the end of the sentence.

I think you made her delay. You slowed down at 'although', quite beautifully, and now I can hardly see the rug without suspecting it. That's a compliment to your voice and an objection to your evidence. May I read that sentence back? I want to try it briskly. Also, please don't count my silences. I invited you to ask if I'd heard the end, not award me a small certificate when I had.

'At the foot of the stairs she stopped to straighten the little rug, although she could already hear him opening the cupboard.' There. Briskly. Now she sounds annoyed with the rug, which is a third possibility neither of us required. I'll put the book back between us. I preferred your reading, actually. I could see the staircase. Mine was mostly a demonstration, and I became rather eager to reach the cupboard and prove my point.

Yours. And 'damned' is sufficiently precise; here, I've written both questions. The curled corner is your addition, incidentally. We ought to charge you rent for all this furniture. Before you read, there's something I want to check at the front. I remember my sister laughing when I first complained about the woman straightening things. I thought she was laughing at my argument. Now I'm wondering whether I'd just straightened something myself. May I look at her inscription?

You may look. It says, 'For Vera, who always saves my place.' No date. That doesn't explain the laughing, and I won't pretend it does. I used to keep a finger in her book when she went to answer the door. I'd forgotten that until now. Here, I'll turn back to our sheet. I still want your voice. But first, would you ask me why I stopped reading with her? I think I gave you the convenient answer.

She went to the door. I kept her place, then read ahead while she was gone. When she came back, I told her the next paragraph settled our argument. She asked where to begin, and I pointed further down the page. I had already read the part she would have read to me. She didn't close it; I asked to borrow it. That's the movement of the book, as I remember it. I made it sound as though she had simply tired of my interruptions.

I wanted her agreement first. When she said we should read the paragraph aloud anyway, I said there was no point; I'd just told her what happened. I remember that sentence rather well now. Then I wanted the book to myself. Both, in that order. But I haven't chosen a passage for you this morning. I've delayed one, with your permission. Please let that difference survive the comparison. I am enjoying this, including the parts where you are inconveniently attractive and wrong about me.

Only that I missed her voice once I had the book at home. I could have said that when I returned, and asked her to read again. I didn't. That is the less convenient part; the quarrel wasn't the only opportunity I had. Now, yes, your finger beneath the line, please. I would like to hear what he takes from the cupboard before I acquire another opinion about my character. You may even make him sound disagreeable, provided you let him finish.

Whether they're both having tea. The cup makes me hear an invitation, though I dislike that he doesn't turn. Your task is possible; I don't hear it first. And I won't tell you what happens because I don't remember. I remember being certain about this book much better than I remember the book. Put 'milk for two?' beneath our rug, if you like. Then keep reading. I want to hear whether she comes into the kitchen before either of us decides where she belongs.