The Light Across the Courtyard

Daniel noticed the light because he was washing a coffee mug.

That was all.

Nothing cinematic. No music. No thunderstorm pressing against the windows. No sudden sense that his life had tilted onto some new and interesting axis.

He was standing at the kitchen sink at eleven twenty-seven on a Wednesday night, rinsing out a mug he should have washed that morning, when the apartment across the courtyard lit up.

Movement caught his eye.

A woman stepped into the kitchen opposite.

Daniel looked because people look when something moves.

She put a bag on the bench, kicked off her shoes, opened the fridge and stood there staring into it for several seconds.

Then she shut the door without taking anything out.

Daniel smiled despite himself.

He had done the same thing ten minutes earlier.

The building was an old brick rectangle wrapped around a narrow internal courtyard. Someone, decades ago, had apparently decided that putting kitchen and living-room windows directly opposite one another was an excellent way to encourage community spirit.

Mostly it encouraged curtains.

At night the courtyard became a collection of illuminated boxes. Kitchens. Lounges. Occasionally a bathroom window high enough that nobody had bothered frosting the glass properly.

Daniel had lived there for six months.

He knew almost none of the people.

The old bloke two floors down smoked on his balcony at seven every morning.

A couple somewhere above him argued on Sundays.

Someone had a dog that barked whenever the lift doors opened.

That was about the extent of his community involvement.

He rinsed the mug, put it upside down beside the sink and looked across again.

The woman had filled an oversized ceramic mug with something.

Tea, probably.

She carried it into the living room.

Daniel turned off his kitchen light and went to bed.

By Friday, he had forgotten about her.

Mostly.

He was working late at the dining table when the apartment opposite lit up again.

Ten seventeen.

He checked the time without meaning to.

The woman appeared in the kitchen.

Same bag.

Different clothes.

Same enormous mug.

This time she opened the fridge and actually removed something.

Progress.

Daniel went back to the spreadsheet on his laptop.

Twenty minutes later he realised he had read the same row three times.

He stood, stretched and wandered into the kitchen.

She was still there.

Not in the kitchen now.

Living room.

The distance across the courtyard was perhaps twenty metres. Enough that faces lost detail, but close enough to recognise expression if someone stood near the glass.

She was sitting sideways on the sofa with one leg tucked beneath her, mug resting against her knee.

Daniel opened a cupboard.

Closed it.

Opened the fridge.

There was nothing in there he wanted.

He became aware, with mild embarrassment, that he was copying her.

He shut the fridge and returned to work.

The following Tuesday she appeared again.

Ten fourteen.

Daniel was in the kitchen already.

He told himself this was coincidence.

He had made tea.

People made tea in kitchens.

Kitchens had windows.

Windows faced other windows.

No crime had occurred.

The opposite apartment stayed dark for another three minutes.

Then the lamp came on.

Daniel looked down at his mug.

Ridiculous.

When he glanced back, she had arrived.

She had changed clothes since the previous week.

Loose grey trousers. Dark top.

Hair tied up.

The same oversized mug.

She stood at the bench scrolling through her phone.

Daniel found himself wondering what she did for work.

Then he wondered why.

He knew nothing about her.

She might be a surgeon.

An accountant.

A fraud investigator.

A woman who sold novelty garden statues online.

There was no reason to fill in the blanks.

Still, the blanks invited it.

She looked up.

Daniel froze.

Not dramatically.

He simply stopped moving.

For perhaps half a second, they looked directly at one another across the courtyard.

Then Daniel turned towards the kettle.

It was not boiling.

He watched it anyway.

His ears felt warm.

Christ.

He was forty-one years old.

He had sat through lawyers explaining division of assets.

He had moved out of the house he had lived in for eleven years.

He had calmly told friends that the separation was mutual when it had felt like someone had quietly removed the floor beneath him.

And now a woman looking through a window had reduced him to a teenager pretending he had not been caught staring.

He waited.

Ten seconds.

Maybe twenty.

Then looked back.

She was still standing there.

Looking at him.

Daniel nearly turned away again.

Before he could, she lifted the enormous mug slightly.

Not a wave.

Not exactly.

More like a toast.

He stared for a moment.

Then lifted his own mug.

Her mouth curved.

She walked out of the kitchen.

Daniel stood there holding his tea.

“Brilliant,” he muttered.

The courtyard gave him no answer.

After that, pretending became harder.

Not because anything particularly significant happened.

Nothing did.

That was almost the problem.

She appeared most evenings between ten and ten thirty.

Daniel learned this without intending to learn it.

She was usually home later on Thursdays.

She watered the plant beside the living-room window every Saturday morning.

She sometimes ate dinner standing at the kitchen bench instead of sitting down.

She spoke on the phone with her hands.

She laughed more than he expected.

He never heard the laugh through the glass, but he could see it.

Once she danced for perhaps thirty seconds while waiting for the kettle.

Not proper dancing.

The absent-minded sort people do when they believe nobody is paying attention.

Daniel watched.

Then felt guilty for watching.

Then wondered whether the guilt itself had become theatrical.

She knew he existed now.

That changed things.

Didn't it?

The question bothered him.

There was a difference between noticing someone and watching them.

Daniel understood that perfectly well.

He also understood that he had crossed that line somewhere without being able to say exactly when.

Tuesday evenings developed an odd weight.

He began clearing the kitchen after dinner.

He worked at the dining table instead of the desk in the spare bedroom.

Sometimes she looked across.

Sometimes she didn't.

Sometimes Daniel thought she was deliberately ignoring him.

Then, just as he decided the whole thing had been a projection produced by loneliness and too much time alone, she would look directly towards his apartment and hold the gaze for a second longer than necessary.

The first deliberate change was the lamp.

For weeks, she had used a floor lamp at the far end of her living room.

Then one night it moved.

Closer to the window.

Daniel noticed immediately.

He hated that he noticed immediately.

She came into the room at ten twenty-two, switched it on and sat in the chair beside the window rather than the sofa.

Closer than usual.

Not right against the glass.

Just closer.

She read for almost an hour.

Daniel tried to watch television.

He had no idea what happened in the programme.

At eleven twelve, she closed the book.

Looked across.

Daniel was already looking.

For once, he didn't turn away.

Neither did she.

The moment stretched.

Then she smiled.

Not broadly.

Almost privately.

Daniel smiled back.

That was it.

She switched off the lamp.

He sat in darkness for several minutes afterwards.

The next morning, he nearly laughed at himself.

Nothing had happened.

Two people had looked through two windows.

That was the full extent of the event.

And yet the apartment felt different.

For six months it had been temporary.

A place containing his things.

His coffee machine.

His desk.

Half the books he and Rachel had once shelved together.

A bed he had bought because taking the old one had seemed unnecessarily cruel.

Now the apartment contained a window.

And opposite that window was Claire.

He did not know her name yet.

That came later.

At this point she was simply the woman opposite.

For another week, their communication remained ridiculous.

A raised mug.

A glance.

Once, Daniel arrived home later than usual and found the opposite apartment dark.

He experienced a flicker of disappointment.

Then the light came on.

She entered the kitchen almost immediately.

She looked across.

Daniel was still wearing his coat.

She pointed at the clock on her wall.

Then at him.

Daniel laughed.

“Sorry,” he said aloud, though there was no chance she could hear.

She shrugged dramatically.

He pointed at himself, then mimed being stuck in traffic.

She shook her head as though refusing the excuse.

This was absurd.

He loved it.

The following Friday, Daniel bought a plant.

He did not need a plant.

He was bad with plants.

Rachel had once told him he could kill plastic flowers through lack of attention.

Nevertheless, he bought a small potted herb from the supermarket and put it on the kitchen windowsill.

At ten nineteen, the opposite apartment lit up.

The woman entered.

Stopped.

Looked at the plant.

Looked at Daniel.

Daniel pointed towards hers.

She put both hands together beneath her chin and performed an exaggerated expression of pride.

Daniel bowed.

The little exchange lasted perhaps five seconds.

It was the most he had enjoyed himself all week.

He began to wonder about meeting her.

This was inevitable, he supposed.

Eventually they would both leave the building at the same time.

Or collect mail.

Or stand waiting for the lift.

The thought made him nervous.

Through the windows, everything was simple because nothing had to be explained.

There were no names.

No expectations.

No awkward conversation about where either of them worked or why Daniel now lived alone.

The courtyard allowed them to be edited versions of themselves.

Fragments.

He worried reality would ruin it.

Then reality arrived anyway.

Saturday morning.

Nine thirty-two.

Daniel carried a bag of rubbish towards the bins at the rear of the building.

He was wearing track pants, an old T-shirt and the expression of a man who had not yet had enough coffee to interact with society.

The courtyard entrance door opened.

A woman stepped through carrying two canvas shopping bags.

Daniel recognised her instantly.

Of course he did.

She recognised him too.

Both stopped.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Up close she looked both exactly and nothing like the woman across the courtyard.

Her hair was darker than he had thought.

There were faint lines beside her eyes.

She wore no makeup.

One shopping bag contained a long baguette sticking absurdly out of the top.

Daniel was suddenly aware that he was holding a rubbish bag.

“Morning,” she said.

Her voice surprised him.

Lower than expected.

“Morning.”

Brilliant start.

She shifted one of the bags.

“You're taller than I thought.”

Daniel blinked.

Then laughed.

“You're closer than I thought.”

“That's usually how courtyards work.”

“Right.”

She smiled.

The awkwardness loosened slightly.

“I'm Claire.”

“Daniel.”

“I know.”

Daniel stared.

Claire's smile widened.

“You have parcels delivered.”

“Oh.”

“Your name is on them.”

“Right. Yes. That makes considerably more sense than whatever I was imagining.”

“What were you imagining?”

“Nothing flattering about my intelligence.”

She laughed.

There it was.

The laugh he had watched through the glass.

Hearing it felt strangely intimate.

Claire glanced at the rubbish bag.

“Big Saturday planned?”

“Huge. Bins first. Possibly supermarket later if I can handle the excitement.”

“Careful. Pace yourself.”

“You?”

She lifted the shopping bags.

“Breakfast supplies.”

Daniel nodded towards the baguette.

“For a small village?”

“It's decorative.”

“Of course.”

They stood there for another moment.

In daylight, with shopping bags and rubbish between them, the entire nighttime ritual felt impossible.

Daniel wondered if they would simply pretend it had never happened.

Perhaps that was best.

Claire shifted the bag again.

Then looked towards the courtyard.

“So,” she said.

Daniel waited.

“The plant.”

He laughed.

“Still alive.”

“For now.”

“I've had it eight days.”

“Impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“I wasn't complimenting you.”

“Right.”

She began walking towards the building.

Daniel turned towards the bins.

Then Claire stopped.

“Daniel?”

He looked back.

She was standing beneath the awning.

“You know you can look at me when we're in the same courtyard, right?”

He felt his face warm.

“I wasn't sure what the rules were.”

“There are rules?”

“I assumed there must be.”

Claire considered this.

“Maybe one.”

“Which is?”

“If either person looks uncomfortable, stop.”

The simplicity of it caught him off guard.

Daniel nodded.

“Fair.”

“And perhaps don't buy any more plants just to impress me.”

“That feels unnecessarily restrictive.”

“They'll die.”

“That's pessimistic.”

“I've seen your watering technique.”

Daniel stared at her.

Claire smiled.

Then disappeared through the door.

That evening, Daniel made dinner.

He ate at the table.

Watched television.

At ten fifteen, he found himself standing in the kitchen.

The opposite apartment was dark.

Ten seventeen.

Still dark.

Ten twenty.

Daniel felt stupid.

Of course she had a life.

Perhaps she was out.

Perhaps the daylight meeting had changed things.

Perhaps the window ritual had existed precisely because they had not known each other.

Ten twenty-three.

The lamp came on.

Claire entered the kitchen carrying the oversized mug.

Daniel laughed quietly.

She saw him immediately.

No hesitation now.

She walked towards the window.

Daniel did the same.

For the first time, they stood directly opposite one another.

No pretending to wash dishes.

No unnecessary trips to the fridge.

Claire lifted the mug.

Daniel raised his glass.

She pointed towards his plant.

Daniel picked it up and showed her.

Still alive.

Claire gave him a thumbs-up.

Then she leaned against the bench.

They stayed there.

Neither seemed in a hurry to leave.

The ritual changed after that.

It became less secretive.

More playful.

Sometimes they simply waved.

Sometimes Claire would hold up whatever book she was reading.

Daniel once wrote TOO SMALL on a sheet of paper and pressed it against the glass.

The next night she appeared with a handwritten sign.

BUY GLASSES.

Daniel responded with:

RUDE.

The following evening:

TRUE.

The signs became a running conversation.

LONG DAY?

YES.

YOU?

WORSE.

WINE?

ALREADY.

Once:

DATE?

Daniel stared at the word.

Claire stood opposite with an expression of exaggerated innocence.

He wrote:

NO.

Then, after thinking:

YOU?

She disappeared for almost a minute.

Returned with:

NOSY.

Daniel laughed.

Then another piece of paper appeared beneath it.

NO.

Something shifted after that.

Not dramatically.

There was simply less distance in the distance.

Daniel stopped worrying so much about whether looking was allowed.

Claire had made the answer clear.

Still, the ritual had boundaries.

They did not watch constantly.

They did not appear at every window.

Nothing was recorded.

Nothing was hidden.

It remained a strange appointment neither formally scheduled.

The nights when one of them did not appear became noticeable.

One Thursday Claire's apartment stayed dark.

Daniel tried not to think about it.

At eleven fifteen, his phone rang.

Rachel.

They spoke for twenty minutes about paperwork relating to the house.

The conversation was calm.

Almost friendly.

When it ended, Daniel sat at the table staring at nothing.

For months he had thought loneliness meant missing Rachel.

Now he understood that wasn't quite right.

He missed being known.

Someone knowing whether he took sugar.

Someone noticing when he came home late.

Someone asking why he had gone quiet.

The marriage ending had removed a witness to his life.

And somehow, absurdly, a stranger across a courtyard had begun filling a tiny part of that space.

Claire returned Friday.

Daniel was making coffee when her light came on.

She entered wearing a coat and carrying an overnight bag.

He held up a sign.

ALIVE?

She laughed and wrote:

BARELY.

Then:

MISS ME?

Daniel stared.

He could have made a joke.

Probably should have.

Instead he wrote:

YES.

Claire read it.

The teasing expression disappeared.

For a moment she simply looked at him.

Then she wrote something.

Held it against the glass.

GOOD.

Daniel did not sleep particularly well that night.

A week later, Claire changed the game.

It was just after eleven.

Rain had been falling for hours, washing silver lines down the courtyard windows.

Daniel was reading on the sofa.

Claire's lamp was on.

She had been there perhaps twenty minutes.

He looked across occasionally.

Nothing unusual.

Then she moved the chair.

Not much.

A metre perhaps.

Closer to the window.

She sat again.

Looked towards him.

Daniel put the book down.

Claire raised one eyebrow.

Daniel had no idea whether he could actually see the eyebrow from that distance or merely knew the expression well enough by now to imagine it.

She stood.

Walked towards the glass.

Stopped.

There was no ambiguity left in the gesture.

She was looking directly at him.

Waiting.

Daniel stood too.

The rain continued between them.

Claire touched one hand lightly to the window.

Daniel hesitated.

Then did the same.

Two palms.

Two panes of glass.

Twenty metres of rain and air.

It was ridiculous.

And strangely tender.

Claire smiled.

Daniel did too.

Nothing more happened.

Nothing needed to.

She lowered her hand first.

Then reached for a pad of paper.

Daniel waited.

She wrote slowly.

Tomorrow?

He nodded.

Then realised that was insufficient.

He found paper.

WHERE?

Claire disappeared.

Returned with:

COFFEE.

Daniel wrote:

WHEN?

Her answer:

10.

Then, beneath it:

DON'T BE LATE.

Daniel laughed.

The next morning he arrived at the café downstairs at nine fifty-three.

Seven minutes early.

Claire was already there.

She had the oversized mug.

Daniel stopped beside the table.

“You're cheating.”

Claire looked up.

“What?”

“You brought your own mug.”

“Their cups are too small.”

“That seems difficult for the café.”

“I bought coffee and poured it in.”

Daniel sat opposite her.

For a few seconds they both smiled like idiots.

“So,” Claire said.

“So.”

“This is weird.”

“Extremely.”

“Good.”

Daniel laughed.

“I was worried you'd think so.”

“I do think so.”

“No, I mean bad weird.”

Claire shook her head.

“No.”

They ordered breakfast.

Conversation came easier than he expected.

Claire worked in publishing.

Educational material.

She had lived in the building for three years.

She had been single for two.

She hated coriander.

She loved terrible crime documentaries.

The oversized mug had been a gift from her sister.

Daniel told her about the separation.

Not everything.

Enough.

At one point Claire stirred her coffee and said, “You know I noticed you first.”

Daniel stopped.

“What?”

“Months ago.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“That's impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because I noticed you.”

Claire smiled.

“Eventually.”

Daniel stared at her.

“When?”

“You used to stand at the kitchen window every night after you moved in.”

“I did?”

“You looked miserable.”

“Fantastic.”

“You did.”

“I appreciate the honesty.”

“You also kept opening the fridge without taking anything out.”

Daniel laughed.

“Oh, come on.”

“I'm serious.”

“So the first night I thought I noticed you—”

“I already knew who you were.”

Daniel sat back.

“That's deeply embarrassing.”

“I wouldn't worry.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Claire lifted the mug.

“I also knew you were watching.”

“Immediately?”

“Pretty much.”

Daniel covered his face with one hand.

Claire laughed.

“Daniel.”

“What?”

“If I'd wanted you to stop, I would've closed the curtains.”

He lowered his hand.

“I wasn't always sure.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“Because every time you thought you'd been caught, you suddenly became incredibly interested in the kettle.”

Daniel laughed again.

Claire looked towards the courtyard.

Their windows were visible from where they sat.

Two rectangles facing one another above the café awning.

“It was nice,” she said.

“What was?”

“Being noticed.”

Daniel looked at her.

Claire shrugged.

“Not in some dramatic way. Just knowing somebody was there.”

He understood immediately.

“Yeah.”

She looked back at him.

“You too?”

Daniel nodded.

“Yeah.”

For a moment neither spoke.

There was nothing awkward about the silence now.

Claire finished her coffee.

“Anyway,” she said, “I should go.”

Daniel made no effort to hide his disappointment.

Claire noticed.

Of course she did.

“I’m going grocery shopping,” she said. “I’m not emigrating.”

“Right.”

“You could come.”

They did.

It was absurdly ordinary. Bread, coffee, detergent, Claire making fun of the contents of his basket and Daniel discovering she read every label on everything.

By the time they came back, the daylight had taken some of the mystery out of them.

Daniel thought that might be a good thing.

Then, at ten eighteen that night, her lamp came on.

He was already at his window.

Claire appeared carrying the oversized mug.

She didn’t lift it in greeting.

Instead she held up a piece of paper.

WATCHING?

Daniel smiled and wrote:

YES.

Claire read it.

Then:

GOOD.

She put the paper down.

For several seconds she simply stood there.

Then she reached behind herself and pulled the curtains wider.

Daniel’s pulse kicked.

He stayed where he was.

Claire pointed at him, then at the window.

A question.

He nodded.

She nodded back.

That was enough.

She took off the cardigan she was wearing and dropped it onto the chair. Underneath was a thin black top. She watched his reaction through the glass, then slowly lifted the hem and pulled it over her head.

Daniel stopped pretending the situation was anything except what it was.

Claire stood in her bra, looking directly at him.

He raised a hand.

Wait?

She understood.

Claire nodded.

Daniel wrote:

SURE?

Her answer appeared almost immediately.

VERY.

Then another page.

YOU?

Daniel wrote:

VERY.

Claire smiled.

The bra came off.

Daniel had seen her body only in fragments before. A shoulder. A silhouette. The vague shape of her moving around behind glass.

Now she stood openly in front of him, bare from the waist up, not caught, not exposed, but deliberately visible.

Daniel’s body responded instantly.

Claire saw.

That was part of it.

She moved closer to the glass and let one hand trail down her stomach.

Daniel swallowed.

His apartment suddenly felt far too warm.

Claire pointed towards him.

Your turn.

Daniel took off his shirt.

She laughed.

He frowned.

Claire held up:

SLOW.

“Right,” he muttered.

She was enjoying this.

So was he.

Daniel stepped closer to the window and unfastened his jeans.

Claire’s expression changed.

Not playful now.

Interested.

Hungry.

He pushed the jeans down enough for her to see how hard he was.

Claire bit her lip.

Her hand slipped beneath the waistband of her trousers.

Daniel stared.

She stared back.

Neither looked away.

For several minutes they touched themselves across the courtyard, two adults separated by twenty metres of air and glass, each knowing exactly who the other was watching.

Daniel had imagined voyeurism as distance.

This felt nothing like distance.

Claire’s head tipped back when her fingers worked faster. Her other hand pressed against the window.

Daniel wrapped his hand around his cock and matched her pace without consciously deciding to.

When Claire looked at him again, her eyes were half closed.

She mouthed something.

He couldn’t hear it.

Didn’t need to.

Her body tightened.

Her hand moved faster.

Daniel watched her come with her forehead resting against the glass, breath fogging a small patch in front of her mouth.

The sight nearly finished him.

Claire opened her eyes.

Saw how close he was.

Then deliberately put her palm against the window again.

Daniel came hard into his hand, looking straight at her.

For a few seconds neither moved.

Then Claire disappeared from the window.

Daniel stood there breathing.

A moment later she returned with paper.

COME OVER.

He laughed once, mostly because his nerves had nowhere else to go.

Daniel pulled his jeans up and wrote:

NOW?

Claire held up:

OBVIOUSLY.

Her apartment was warmer than his.

That was the first thing Daniel noticed when she opened the door.

The second was that Claire was wearing the same trousers and nothing above them.

“Hi,” she said.

Daniel stared at her.

“That feels insufficient.”

Claire smiled.

“Come in.”

He did.

The door shut behind him.

Neither spoke for perhaps two seconds.

Then Claire grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him.

There was nothing tentative about it.

Daniel kissed her back, one hand sliding around her waist, the other into her hair.

Claire pushed him against the door.

“So,” she said against his mouth, “you’re better up close.”

“High praise.”

“Shut up.”

She kissed him again.

Daniel’s hands moved over her bare back, down to her hips. Claire reached between them and found him already hard again.

She smiled.

“Quick recovery.”

“You’ve had six months of preparation.”

Claire laughed and dropped to her knees.

Daniel’s joke died in his throat.

She unfastened him, pulled him free and wrapped her hand around his cock.

“Still okay?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Claire held his gaze and took him into her mouth.

Daniel’s head touched the door behind him.

He had watched her across the courtyard for months.

Nothing had prepared him for the heat of her mouth, the slow movement of her tongue, the fact that she kept looking up at him while she sucked him.

He touched her hair lightly.

Claire took him deeper, then pulled back.

“Bedroom,” she said.

Daniel followed.

The curtains were still wide open.

He looked towards his own apartment across the courtyard.

Claire noticed.

“Leave them.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

She pushed her trousers and underwear down and stepped out of them.

Daniel stared.

Claire lay back on the bed and spread her thighs.

“You’ve done enough watching.”

Daniel moved between her legs.

Her skin was warm under his hands. He kissed her stomach, then lower, and Claire’s fingers tightened in the sheet when his mouth reached her.

She was already wet.

Daniel used his tongue slowly at first, listening to her breathing change, learning what made her hips lift and what made her swear under her breath.

“Daniel.”

He looked up.

“Don’t stop.”

So he didn’t.

Claire came with one hand gripping his hair and the other pressed over her mouth as though she had suddenly remembered the courtyard existed.

Daniel climbed up beside her.

She kissed him, tasting herself on his mouth.

“Condom?”

“Wallet.”

“Prepared.”

“Optimistic.”

She laughed.

He found it.

Claire took it from him, opened it and rolled it onto him herself.

Then she pushed him onto his back and straddled him.

Daniel put his hands on her hips.

Claire lowered herself slowly.

They both stopped at the first full press of him inside her.

“Okay?” he asked.

Claire nodded.

“Very.”

She began to move.

Slow at first.

Then harder.

Daniel watched her, completely unable not to.

Claire leaned down.

“You can look,” she whispered.

He laughed.

“Good.”

She kissed him.

They fucked with the curtains open and the courtyard beyond them dark and empty, their months of watching collapsed into touch, heat, sweat and the blunt reality of finally being in the same room.

Later Claire lay beside him with one leg over his.

Daniel looked towards the window.

His own apartment was a lit rectangle opposite.

Empty.

Claire followed his gaze.

“Strange, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Seeing it from here.”

Daniel smiled.

“Very.”

She rested her head on his chest.

After a minute she said, “You still going grocery shopping with me next week?”

Daniel laughed.

“That’s your question?”

“It matters.”

“Yes.”

Claire nodded.

“Good.”

The next evening, Daniel was back in his own apartment.

At ten eighteen, Claire appeared at her window.

She was wearing his shirt.

Daniel laughed.

Claire raised the oversized mug.

Then she held up a sign.

STILL WATCHING?

Daniel didn’t need paper this time.

He nodded.

Claire smiled.

So did he.

And neither of them closed the curtains.