Some words
deserve a second look.

You may ask. But 'liked' and 'defended' aren't quite the same thing. There are sentences I've enjoyed while thinking them wrong, and others I've supported because someone at the table dismissed them too easily. I don't want you studying my face for the correct objection. Read the page with me first. Then ask the personal question. If I start describing a fictional sideboard, you have permission to interrupt.

No. Forgetting would require more supervision than remembering. And you're right; I've arranged quite an entrance for a page that may simply bore you. I haven't read that part again since I cleared the chair. I opened the book, saw my oldest note and shut it. So when I say I can't defend it aloud, I'm not reporting a brave new opinion. I haven't yet checked whether the printed words say what I remember.

'Ask her why she stayed.' Four words, underlined. No date, no useful identification of 'her'. I know who I meant: the woman in the novel. I don't know whether I was asking the author to explain her or reminding myself that someone ought to ask her. I remember arguing that she had made a choice. The note makes me wonder whether I was as satisfied with that argument as I sounded.

Six. An alarming performance from someone who used to keep accounts. My sister heard it, more than once. She'd lent me the book before I bought my own copy. I remember telling her that staying needn't mean the woman had failed to imagine leaving. She asked me which part of the page showed that. I remember my answer less clearly than her question. On Sunday, before I uncover the margin, I'd like to see whether I can actually point to it.

It's an adequate reason. I'd still like to say goodnight here. I want Sunday to be the first time I open that door to you; I hadn't realised I cared about that until you asked. You would probably behave impeccably on the doorstep, which makes refusing you rather inconvenient. Stay beside me a minute before we separate. You needn't inspect a building to establish that I enjoyed having supper with you.

Yes. There, you have your arm back. And you're right about the certificate. I made your request sound needier than it was because I disliked giving an answer that disappointed you. That was unhelpful. As for ceremony, you've turned to face me with a speech prepared about doorstep conduct. I can survive a little. What I would like, standing here, is to kiss your cheek. May I?

Take your moment. I'm discovering that being looked at is much less convenient when nobody is asking me a question. All right. A kiss on your cheek, and now I step back before you accuse me of obstructing the public steps. I wanted to do that during supper, actually. When you asked about the potatoes. I decided you'd think I was avoiding answering, so I asked for them instead.

I will. And if I'm staring at the pan after the eggs are on the table, you may return the favour. I haven't yet tried sitting opposite you in my own kitchen with nothing left to fetch. That part of Sunday concerns me more than the omelette. There, something for you to know before nine. Goodnight, Vivienne. I'm taking these steps now. Leave me the undignified pleasure of turning round to see whether you're still there.

The butter is already in. If I sit now, your arrival will smell of burnt breakfast. Give me the minute we negotiated, and then you can have me in the chair. I saw your one-handed wave, incidentally. It was sufficient; I managed to reach the top without requiring an encore. While I do this, tell me something you noticed on the way here. Something outside my kitchen. I'd like to know what sort of morning you've brought in.

Did the plant accept? No, don't answer; I'm folding this, and I can't afford to laugh at a sensitive moment. There. One side is less elegant, so naturally that's mine. I'll bring both plates. You can release your hands from exemplary service now. I put the novel on the shelf rather than the table this morning. I caught myself laying it beside your fork, as though breakfast required an agenda. For once, I wanted to find out what we'd say without one.

You can have the folded corner. Here, both plates within reach; choose before I develop further opinions. I'm sitting down now. Those earrings move when you're trying not to smile. I like them, although the bus apparently deserves the credit. What occasion would the first pair have announced? You don't have to show them to me. I'm curious whether you were dressing for something you wanted, or something you thought I expected.

I was pleased. I hadn't prepared a face for the door, so you'll have to accept that one as reliable. And thank you for telling me about the middle; I was trying not to watch your fork. Mine is soft too. Good. I can stop supervising it. There is something I left out when I invited you: I kept the rest of the morning free. Breakfast and the book needn't be the whole visit. Have you somewhere to be afterwards?

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.

He reaches for the cloth. I was about to write that down before you turned him into a man who leaves everything to her. But she gets there first, and I don't know why. Perhaps she doesn't trust his washing. Perhaps she wants something to do with her hands. I would like one minute with that possibility. You may look impatient; it suits you more than the expression you wear when you're trying to look patient.

Yes. At the shop, someone offered to add up a column while I finished another. I checked theirs before I finished mine. Not because I found an error; I didn't. I disliked being ready to leave before everyone else. With figures in front of me, I could remain without asking whether anyone wanted me there. Don't put that beside the woman's cup. It belongs beside my name. And I have written 'he reaches', as requested.

Once that I can remember clearly. I'll tell you after the page, because I want the rest of it too. And yes, checking the sum probably looked insulting. I hadn't considered that part until you said it. Here, move your cup; the sheet is catching underneath. There. Read from the sink. I shall keep my hands on my own cup, which is already clean, and make no useful contribution whatsoever. An alarming prospect. You seem pleased.

Yes. We put the accounts away and ate bread on the step outside. I remember crumbs collecting in the fold of my skirt, and wanting to laugh without moving them. The person beside me asked whether I liked having my name above the door. I said it was good for business. That wasn't what they'd asked. Put the sheet in the book, would you? I want to tell you what I almost said, and I don't want to watch the next page while I do.

'Yes. I like coming round the corner and seeing it before anyone sees me.' That was the sentence. Fairly tidy, I'm afraid; the difficulty wasn't composition. I liked having a moment outside when I belonged there and nobody had yet asked me to do anything. Then I heard how pleased with myself I sounded, although I hadn't spoken. So I supplied a commercial advantage. Please don't make that the secret explanation of everything that happened afterwards.

They said, 'I meant do you like it.' I remember looking up, which was absurd; I knew what it said. Then I offered them the end of the bread. They took it. We talked about whether it would rain. There was room; I furnished it with weather. But you have an advantage over them: you know there is another answer. Would you really have waited beside me, or would you have tried to charm it out?

I'd probably have improved your joke. Then we could both have enjoyed how well the evening was going without my answering anything. I like being funny with you; it is sometimes a very agreeable escape route. But I am looking at you now. Yes, I liked my name there. I liked the long stroke of the V, which I insisted on, and I liked that someone could give directions using it. I'm finding this harder to say than the regrets.

I wanted you to be able to take it. I also wanted you to keep reading to me, which made letting go of it rather easier. Here, halfway again, still shut. I haven't finished enjoying your company merely because we've finished the page. But before we open it, I want a turn at being curious. Have you ever liked seeing your own name on something? Tell me the first thing you picture. And allow me the pleasure of not yet knowing the story.