A Tap on the Window

Four

In the morning, the woman comes into the bedroom bearing a tray.

“Hey,” she says to the man, who is still under the covers.

He raises himself up on his elbows, surveys the breakfast as the woman sets it down on the bedside table.

“Scrambled,” he says, looking at the eggs almost suspiciously.

“Just the way you like them,” she says. “Well cooked. You should eat them before they get cold.”

He gets his legs out from under the covers, sits up on the edge of the bed. He is wearing a pair of faded white flannel pajamas with blue pinstripes. They are threadbare at the knees.

“How’d you sleep?” the woman asks.

“Okay,” he says, reaching for the napkin and spreading it on his lap. “I didn’t hear you get up.”

“I got up around six, but I tiptoed around the kitchen so I wouldn’t disturb you. You given up your hobby?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Where’s your little book? It’s usually right there.” She points to the bedside table.

“I write in it after you leave,” he says, setting the plate atop the napkin, resting it on his knees, taking his first bite. “Good eggs.” The woman says nothing. “You want to sit down?”

“No. I have to go to work.”

He picks up a strip of bacon, bites into it with a crunch. “You want some help?”

“Help with what?”

“At work. I could come and help you.” He chews the bacon, swallows.

“You’re confused,” she says. “You don’t come to work.”

“I used to,” he says.

“You just enjoy your breakfast.”

“I could help, I really could. You know I’m good at doing the books. I catch everything.”

The woman sighs. How many times has she had this conversation? “No,” she says.

The man frowns. “I’d like things to be the way they used to be.”

“Who wouldn’t?” the woman says. “I’d like to be twenty-one again, but wishing don’t make it happen.”

He blows on his coffee, has a sip. “What’s it like out today?”

“Nice, I think. Rained last night.”

“I’d like to go out, even in the rain,” the man says.

She’s had enough. “Eat your breakfast. I’ll be back for the tray before I go.”