Some words
deserve a second look.

You've looked at that chair three times and at me only twice. I refuse to lose an evening to furniture, Vera. Sit down. There are still only two glasses, if you're conducting an inventory. I moved it because the room looked too certain of itself—and because I wanted to see whether you'd ask who was missing.

An interview? Darling, I'd have given you the bad light. There—I'll take the chair beside yours. But don't look so pleased; you haven't solved me by rearranging the seating. That empty place isn't for a rival. I thought you might find it easier to stay if leaving didn't feel like upsetting a perfect little picture.

Stay for ten minutes after I stop being entertaining. There. Horribly plain. That chair by the lamp is where I sit when you're not here. I moved it away before you arrived because it looked like I'd been waiting. Then I couldn't bear to put it out of the light. You may be insufferable about that, but please be quick.

The one by the lamp. The arm is worn exactly where my hand wants to go. There—I'm in it. Do come closer; I've confessed enough to be spared shouting across my own embarrassment. I wasn't trying to make you jealous. I was trying to look like a woman who hadn't noticed the door. Tomorrow, if I ask you to come, will you let me ask badly?

There. An invitation, as threatened. Supper tomorrow, here, with something cold enough to survive my conversation. I wrote eight and crossed it out because apparently I've become a woman who apologises to clocks. Don't praise the handwriting; it was better before I tried to look casual. I'd like you to come. And I'd like to know when to stop listening for you.

Half past eight, then. I'll eat something at eight, though I reserve the right to make it an unromantic piece of toast. But don't turn this into a lesson in being beautifully sufficient. I want to have supper with you. If you arrive and find me already fed, will you stay at the table anyway? I can bear a late guest. I'd hate to have invited someone who thinks she's only delivering a cure.

Oh, Vera. Thirty minutes to compose an entrance, and you accused my handwriting of theatre. I shall be unbearable about this for approximately three seconds. There, finished. Keep half past eight if you want it. But I'd rather spend those thirty minutes with the eager woman than admire the composed one from a distance. May I put eight back, or would that make your confession into a concession?

Eight, beside the wreckage. There—I've written it. Bring the bread; I'll find you a knife that isn't merely decorative. And now an awkward amendment: I can assemble a cold supper magnificently. Cooking something hot while you stand beside me would be a less curated experience. I've been keeping you in this room because I know how to be seen here. Would you actually prefer the kitchen?

That door. And since we're both still here, you may see it now. There—open, before I can negotiate with a dishcloth. Two plates, one small table, an extravagant amount of linen doing very little. Don't lift it yet. I want to show you myself, which I realise sounds like arranging the unveiling. You may mock that, but please don't congratulate me for having a kitchen.

Yes, move them. Your elbows have made a compelling application. Here, I'll take the cloth off entirely. That pale rectangle is where I sanded the wood on Sunday. I meant to finish before inviting you, then discovered I could either ask you to supper or spend another week choosing a varnish. I asked. Please don't call the unfinished bit charming. I dislike it quite sincerely, even with you standing beside it.

The cloth goes back tomorrow. I like linen, and I refuse to develop a principled attachment to splinters just because you're rather attractive when withholding advice. Tonight it can stay folded. But you've been remarkably accommodating about this cold supper. Is that what you actually want to eat, or have you decided the hostess mustn't be startled? Give me one preference, Vera. Something I haven't helpfully selected for you.

Potatoes I can do, and I'd like them too. Butter, yes; mustard on my side of the table, where it can offend you at a respectful distance. But I'm keeping the cold dish I had in mind. I chose it because I like it, before I discovered its heroic ability to survive a delayed entrance. So you'll get both. And if the potatoes take ten minutes longer, you may keep me company without offering to rescue them.