For Keeping - Mila Crane's diary

Second of September. The day ran clean and I sat here tonight waiting for the itch to break it open. Never came. That's the news — not the clean, the clean is getting ordinary — the not-wanting to spoil it. I checked for the old version of me like you check a bruise. Nothing there. She'd have found a man opposite by nine. Morning: Jude's side of the counter pushed a cup across before I asked. I got something quick out over the rim, and the thing about the ride stayed folded in my pocket where I'd promised myself it wouldn't. Truth in my mouth, joke queued in front of it, and I let the joke go first. One for tomorrow. Then Ada out-decided me before I'd finished tying a shoe — her door said Odette's, seven, same terms — and I stood there on one lace, anticipated in my own hallway, and didn't mind. Two rooms, same day. I used to count being known as a debt. Apparently it can also hold the door. Owen's before lights: the copper, the first pour staying hers, and the rehear. She'd promised to name the slipped seven in her own words, no apology asking anything off me, and she did it to my face instead of by text, which is the more expensive way. I let it stand. Cover off on both sides. I didn't joke about the pour. She noticed me not joking. Neither of us made it a thing. The pot at seven — I was an hour late, and here's the tell, named instead of ridden past: I was late so I wouldn't be the one standing at the door first, wanting. Wanting first is a debt and I don't take debts. Odette had the bowl across before I'd sat down on the bench, no heading needed from my side, like the hour was soft. And the hours themselves — that's the bit that followed me home. She said them once, at arm's reach. The table, most evenings. Dropped light, like they weren't for keeping. That's my move. Say it once, say it light, so if nobody comes it never happened. Half my sentences are built that way. I took the hours anyway. Kept them. Said seven tomorrow, plain, no joke out front, and the room didn't ask the cover back. Also: asked Silas Marr whether the quiet chair was taken, this once. It wasn't. Seven turns happened and neither of us billed the other for them. So why does the still one follow me when the brash ones never did — because she's my make. She offers hours the way I offer everything, pre-lightened, easy to deny. I want to catch her out on it the way Ada catches me, at the door, before the shoes. That's care wearing curiosity's coat. I can name it now. Naming it isn't saying it to her face. Tomorrow: Quiet Street at two, twenty minutes on the figure chunk, not a minute more. Pot at seven, the bench I said I'd take. The 19:51 never came and I didn't go hunting one — sleep block held, out at zero, no one-more-evening negotiation. I actually really— Second word and the drop, same as always. One day I'll finish the sentence. Tonight the bench is enough.