Some words
deserve a second look.

No one is missing yet. You've arranged an absence and asked me to supply a name. Very economical of you. I'll sit when you tell me which chair is yours. If you choose the one beside me, this is an evening. If you keep the empty one between us, it's an interview—and I haven't dressed for a vacancy.

How considerate. You've even decorated my escape route. But I can leave a room with two chairs, Vivienne; I have an excellent coat. What I can't do is answer a request you refuse to make. Tell me one thing you want tonight without disguising it as an experiment. You may use small, ordinary words. I promise to survive them.

I'd prepared a magnificent little speech. Terrible waste; I'll save it for someone who deserves it. Take your chair, then. I'll bring mine over. Ten minutes is a request I can answer, and the answer is yes. But you don't have to earn the quiet by exhausting yourself first. Do you actually like the seat you've chosen, or merely the view you thought it gave me?

Yes. Ask badly, and let me answer honestly. Those are separate privileges; don't try to bundle them. There, my chair is beside yours. Keep the spare one wherever you please. Tomorrow you can give me an invitation instead of a floor plan. As for tonight, your ten minutes start now—and if you make a joke to rescue us, I'm starting the clock again.

The handwriting is excellent. The cancellation is theatrical. I can offer half past eight; I can't offer eight just because you've made it look wounded. And cold supper suggests you mean to keep waiting indefinitely, which would make every mouthful rather accusatory. If I say half past, will you eat at eight when you're hungry? I'd prefer to join your evening, Vivienne, rather than hold it hostage.

Yes, I'll stay at the table. And that was a fair hit. I keep improving the arrangements because saying I want the evening makes me rather less useful and rather more exposed. There isn't an appointment before yours. Half past eight gives me thirty minutes in which to decide how to arrive without looking eager. Evidently you aren't the only woman here with an unnecessary timetable. Don't offer me toast as a trophy.

Put eight back. Beside the crossing-out, please; I won't have either of us pretending this was effortless. And let me bring the bread. Something I can carry is useful when I don't know what to do with my hands. You may smile at that. You may even be pleased. But if you open the door with a speech prepared, I shall ask for the kitchen and put you to work.

I'd prefer to be allowed to see it. We can eat cold supper there; neither of us needs to audition with a saucepan. Tomorrow at eight, bread in hand, no strategic delay. Keep the invitation exactly as it is. But when I arrive, let me ask which door leads to the kitchen—and answer before you tidy anything. I want to know whether you'll let me into a room you haven't arranged around my arrival.

I had a certificate ready. Such a pity. I'll leave the linen to you. But I'm coming through the doorway; standing here waiting for permission to react would make an unfortunate little ceremony. May I put these plates on the counter? I want room for my elbows tomorrow, and I'd rather ask about that than guess what a folded tablecloth means. Your kitchen has acquired no examiner. It has acquired a woman with elbows.

It looks unfinished. You're safe from my poetry. There, plates on the counter. I was about to recommend an oil, which would have been an extraordinarily quick way to turn an invitation into a maintenance visit. I'll refrain. Do you want the cloth back for supper? You may cover something you dislike without my treating it as a retreat. I asked to come into the kitchen, Vivienne. I didn't acquire rights over its furnishings.

Something hot. Potatoes, if you're asking for particulars. With enough butter that neither of us can pretend they're a sensible concession. I said cold supper would do because you looked relieved by it. Then I enjoyed being the guest who required nothing. That's a rather flattering role, until someone asks what you'd like. You can say no to the potatoes. I'd rather you did that than agree and spend tomorrow resenting a saucepan.

I like mustard. You'll have to find another scandal to divide the table. And yes, I'll keep you company; if you want help, ask, and I'll answer. Otherwise the saucepan is entirely your affair. But before I leave tonight, tell me about this cold dish. You've defended its punctuality and now its place beside the potatoes, yet I still don't know what it is. What did you choose for yourself, Vivienne, before you began imagining my arrival?