Three small stories for adults who aren't quite ready to go home.
The Nameplate
The House had the keys.
The nameplate was taking longer.
There were forms, apparently. There was a waiting period. Somewhere, a small rectangle on a screen remained deeply committed to a man’s first and last name.
“You can come in before it’s official,” said the House.
The woman on the landing looked at the door.
“Is that how you handle all your paperwork?”
“Only the interesting paperwork.”
She was an adult with a coat over one arm and an evening she had chosen to keep for herself. The House liked that about her. It had prepared no prophecy about her arrival. A prophecy would have spoiled the pleasure of the knock.
Inside, the man rose from the piano.
“I thought you might change your mind.”
“I did,” she said. “Twice. This is where the second time brought me.”
He stepped aside.
She came in.
The House considered making the lights flicker, then remembered it had lamps and manners.
It gave them a little amber instead.
On the table lay a brass key neither of them needed to pick up yet.
“What does that open?” she asked.
“The roof.”
“And this one?”
Her hand had come to rest over his.
He looked down, then back at her.
“We could find out.”
“Slowly,” she said.
The House approved of a clear instruction.
Outside, the nameplate remained exactly as it was.
Inside, she took off her coat.
The Birds Have the Keys
The piano had been alone long enough to develop opinions about the company.
It preferred listeners who came closer.
She sat beside him on the bench, leaving enough space to make the next decision interesting.
“Play something.”
“Anything?”
“Something you haven't explained to death.”
He put his hands on the keys.
Three notes entered the room.
From the open window came a brief, outrageous reply.
He stopped.
She smiled.
“You have a collaborator.”
“Apparently we disagree about the tempo.”
He tried the phrase again. The bird answered before he had finished.
The House watched a perfectly respectable nocturne become an argument with a very small musician who paid no rent.
She leaned nearer to see his hands.
Her knee touched his.
Neither corrected the arrangement.
He found a lower chord and let it open beneath the little tune. She listened with her eyes closed. When he turned toward her, she opened them.
There was a pause long enough to belong to both of them.
“Can I?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The kiss was unhurried. His hand left the piano and found her waist; hers rested against the back of his neck. A single note continued ringing after everyone had stopped being responsible for it.
At the window, the bird offered a final comment.
“Critic,” she murmured.
The House closed the curtain halfway.
The bird could keep the keys.
The Lamp's Discretion
The lamp had lit enough books to recognize when a page was no longer being read.
It did not take this personally.
On the sofa, the woman held a finger between two pages while the man traced the inside of her wrist with his thumb.
“You're losing your place,” he said.
“No.”
She put the book facedown on the table.
“I'm changing it.”
He laughed softly. She liked the sound close enough to feel it.
The House had seventeen nights marked on a calendar. For the first time all evening, it turned the calendar toward the wall.
They could have this one without being made to account for the other sixteen.
“Do you want to stay?” he asked.
“For a while.”
“Good.”
She settled against him, then lifted her face and kissed the corner of his mouth because she had decided the first kiss deserved company.
The lamp lowered its ambitions.
It lit the book, the key, the two glasses. It left the far end of the sofa to them.
Later, she reached toward the switch.
“Too dark?”
“Try it.”
The room went blue around the edges.
Her hand found his again without assistance.
The House, which knew the position of every door, kept the hallway clear and the floor warm.
On the landing, the old nameplate caught a thin line of light.
There would be time for that.