morning, Gideon arrived at a small café twelve minutes early and sat at an ordinary table by the window.
Petra entered wearing trousers, a soft gray sweater, and no expression he could interpret.
He stood but did not pull out her chair until she nodded.
The waiter approached.
Gideon started to order her usual coffee, then stopped.
For four years, Petra had known exactly how he took his.
He had never once asked how she took hers.
He looked across the table.
“What do you like?”
Petra’s face changed.
It was not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But it was the beginning of being seen.
“Today?” she said.
“Tea.
Strong, with lemon.”
Gideon ordered exactly that—and nothing more.
