Chapter 4 - What She Almost Said

By the fourth week the lies I told myself had become a routine.

Three weeks. Then four. I stopped counting weeks the way I stopped counting things he'd fixed.

The Amarula evenings became a habit. The plates going back and forth between his door and my kitchen became a habit. The way I would set up two mugs at breakfast before remembering he was already gone became a habit. The way my body knew the sound of his footsteps on the cement before my head caught up — that became a habit too.

Wednesday afternoon. I was on tiptoe in the kitchen reaching for the big teapot on the top shelf, the one I only used when church ladies came for tea. He was supposed to be at work; he'd come home early — a delay on site, sis — and was standing at the kitchen door with a bag of mealies he'd picked up at the spaza on his way in.

He saw me struggling. Crossed the kitchen in three steps.

"Let me."

He reached over my head. His chest was at my back, not quite touching, close enough to feel the heat of him through my dress. His arm went over my shoulder. His other hand — the calloused one — came to rest at the side of my ribs to steady me. Light. Not gripping. Just there.

Every part of my skin where he wasn't touching me started paying attention.

The teapot came down. He didn't move.

I didn't move.