Adam made the bed as soon as he got out of it. Mary watched him from the pillow he was trying to straighten.
“There's still a person in this.”
“I'm doing my half.”
“It'll make my half look bad.”
He stopped pulling the cover and lay down beside her again. It was the thirtieth of May, a Saturday. Neither of them had work until later, and she didn't want the day to be ready before she was.
His flat got the early sun. The light crossed the ceiling slowly while she lay with her hand on his chest. Her clothes were in a bag beside the wardrobe; she hadn't decided what belonged in a drawer. Her own flat was waiting, with the books on the shelves and the plant June had told her would survive anything except her attention.
“What do you do when you're not with me?” she asked.
“Make the bed.”
“Apart from that.”
“Usually I'm up earlier.”
“And then?”
He described an ordinary morning: coffee, a walk to pick up something he needed, sometimes seeing nobody until the job began. Mary had imagined a fuller day for him, something he'd have to rearrange to make room for her. It was strange to think of all the quiet hours each of them had kept alone.
“I put the radio on,” she said. “Even if I'm not listening. I like someone talking while I get ready.”
“I like quiet.”
“We may need a second room just for the weather forecast.”
He smiled and kissed her forehead. She pulled him closer before he could begin straightening the cover again.
They eventually got up. Adam made breakfast while Mary opened the window and found something on the radio that he objected to after thirty seconds. She turned it down rather than off. He began humming along while he cut the bread.
“I heard that,” she said.
“Habit.”
“Deep musical appreciation.”
He didn't answer, because he was still humming.
After breakfast, Mary wanted to go to the market. He wanted to clear the kitchen first. She helped with the plates, but when he began wiping surfaces that were already clean, she put her arms round him from behind.
“It's sunny. It could stop being sunny.”
“Two minutes.”
“One.”
He finished the counter and left the floor. At the market they bought too many tomatoes and stopped to listen to a man playing a badly amplified guitar. Adam wanted to move on. Mary wanted the end of the song. She sang part of it under her breath, off key, and he stood beside her until it ended.
On the walk back he took the heavy bag and gave her the lighter one without making a ceremony of it. She was glad of the ordinary care. She was also glad she'd made him stay for the song. The morning belonged to both of them.
The following Thursday, the fourth of June, the work she'd put aside caught up with her.
The furniture client needed a set of printed proofs checked before a presentation the following morning. Mary had expected one price list. He sent several, with alterations that didn't match the text she'd been given. By seven, she had read the same figure so many times it no longer looked like a number.
She called Ruth to ask whether she could spare half an hour to look at the pages.
“Tonight?”
“I know it's late. I can't see the mistakes anymore.”
Ruth was supposed to be meeting friends for a film. Mary told her it didn't matter; she'd manage.
“No. I'll come. Print them out.”
“You'll miss it.”
“I've looked forward to it all week,” Ruth said, with enough honesty to make Mary wince. “But this sounds more urgent.”
She arrived with reading glasses and sat at the table. For an hour they checked figures in pairs, Mary reading from the original while Ruth followed the proof. Her mother found two missing words and a price Mary had copied wrongly. None of it was difficult. Mary simply hadn't wanted to do it alone another time.
“Thank you,” she said when they finished.
“You can put everything away now.”
“I have to send it.”
“Then send it. I'll make tea.”
Ruth knew where the tea was, though Mary had moved it since she'd last looked. Mary watched her open the wrong cupboard, pause, then ask.
“Top one.”
“You've changed things.”
“It's a system.”
“Is it?”
Mary smiled. She was too tired to defend the system, but happy that Ruth had let her have it.
Over tea, her mother asked how the small wedding was coming along. Mary showed her the dress photograph and a simple invitation she'd made. Ruth admired both without suggesting another guest.
“Could you and Adam come for dinner on the thirteenth?” she asked. “A week before. I'd like one evening before everything gets busy.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Check with him. We can confirm it nearer the time.”
Mary saved the date in her phone. Then she asked what film Ruth had missed.
Her mother told her, and Mary offered to go with her another night. Ruth said she'd like that, then got up to leave before Mary could turn the offer into another arrangement to keep track of.
At the door Mary hugged her hard.
“I needed that.”
“I know.”
When Ruth had gone, the flat was quiet. Mary sent Adam a message about the dinner invitation and told him her mother had rescued the work evening. He replied that the thirteenth was free, and that he was glad the job was finished.
She left the proof pages on the table until morning and went to bed.