The coffee maker on the kitchen counter gave its final, sputtering hiss at six in the morning, filling the room with the quiet smell of roasted chicory. Jason stood near the sink, his dark suit already crisp, sliding a stack of leather folders into his briefcase.
On the granite island sat his silver key on a heavy brass ring, catching the low autumn light through the window. I reached for the pot and poured his black coffee into a travel mug, keeping my hand steady.
“You have the regional transit presentation at nine?” I asked, setting the mug beside his briefcase.
“Nine sharp,” Jason said, snapping the brass latches of his bag closed in two rapid clicks. “Then the lunch meeting with the county commissioner, and a site visit out in Elgin.”
He checked his gold wristwatch, the metal band catching the glare of the under-cabinet lighting as he tilted his wrist. He always knew the exact minute of his day.
A sudden, soft vibration hummed against the wood of the island. Jason’s phone screen lit up with a brief blue glow, but before I could read the name on the glass, his hand swept down.
He flipped the phone face down with a quick, practiced motion of his wrist. He did not look at me when he did it, his eyes remaining fixed on the kitchen wall clock.
“Just a weather alert,” he said, taking his coffee mug.
I watched him slide the phone into his breast pocket and button his wool coat. The silver key on the brass ring stayed on the counter, forgotten as he stepped toward the back door.
“Tell Noah I will try to make his soccer game on Thursday,” he said.
He was gone before I could tell him that the game was actually on Wednesday.
By half past seven, the autumn chill had settled into the garage, turning our breath into small white plumes as Noah and I walked to the car. Noah dragged his feet, his blue backpack hanging low against his winter jacket.
“The zipper is stuck again, Mom,” Noah said, his voice barely louder than the hum of the electric garage door opening.
