“You forgot this,” I said, lifting the paddle toward him.
“Leave it in the back,” he said. “I have the spare one.”
The truck backed out of the driveway, the tires crunching against the loose stones.
I watched the red kayak disappear around the bend of the road, leaving nothing but a thin cloud of dust in the morning air.
I went back inside and washed the silver-plated spoon, placing it back in the drawer next to the knives.
The house felt too large for one person, the silence settled deep into the plaster walls.
I spent the morning folding laundry and stacking the dry towels in the linen closet.
By three o’clock, the wind had picked up, rattling the loose pane in the kitchen window.
I stood by the glass, looking out at the gravel driveway, waiting for the sound of his engine.
The afternoon was too quiet, the kind of silence that makes you listen for things that are not there.
At four o’clock, the sound of gravel under tires broke the stillness of the road.
