“Three times.”
“I mention many things.”
“You described the crust.”
“That was one sentence.”
“It was memorable.”
Clara held out the dish.
Thomas took it carefully.
Their fingers touched.
Both stopped.
Thomas looked at her hand.
Then her face.
Clara swallowed.
“You could invite me inside.”
“Yes.”
He remained still.
“Thomas.”
“Yes?”
“That was a suggestion.”
He blinked.
“Right.”
She laughed again.
His smile returned.
“Come in.”
The ranch house smelled of pine shavings, coffee, and the faint smoke of a fire struggling in a stone hearth.
Thomas had not finished unpacking.
Boxes lined one wall.
A saddle rested on a chair.
Two rifles stood near the door.
There was exactly one curtain in the entire front room, and it was hanging crookedly.
Clara looked at it.
Thomas noticed.
“I know.”
“You did that?”
“Yes.”
“That poor window.”
“I intend to fix it.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
She looked at him.
He sighed.
“There is that word again.”
Clara smiled.
Thomas set the pie on the table.
Then seemed unsure what to do with himself.
That made Clara less nervous.
For months she had imagined Thomas as a man who always possessed the correct sentence.
Letters allowed revision.
Real life did not.
He opened a cupboard.
“Coffee?”
“Yes.”
Thomas reached for the pot.
Clara noticed the cup already on the table.
One cup.
One plate.
One chair drawn close to the stove.
The loneliness of the room moved through her.
She knew that arrangement.
Had lived inside its mirror image.
Thomas poured coffee.
Clara sat.
He remained standing.
“Sit down.”
He looked toward his bare chest.
“I should probably…”
Clara immediately understood.
“Yes.”
He buttoned his shirt with more speed than necessary.
She looked very carefully at her coffee.
Thomas sat opposite.
For several seconds they simply stared.
Clara finally said:
“This is strange.”
“Very.”
“You don't look how I imagined.”
His eyebrow rose.
“Worse?”
“Different.”
“Diplomatic.”
“Would you like honesty?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“You're taller.”
“You imagined me short?”
“I imagined you…”
She stopped.
Thomas waited.
“Less…”