She knows where I live. That means one day, I can hear the call from the village guard, or the telling barking of our dogs. Somebody's at the door, and it's her. I'll likely still be in my house-clothes; a T-shirt, my shorts, slippers. It would be a chilly evening. Nobody would be home.
She would come in at my request. She'd go straight for the den, the room I appropriated for myself at the ground floor, turning right from entering the door. I'd ask why she came by, but her eyes wouldn't break focus. She said she sought me out to talk. And it was urgent. That a phone call or a text wouldn't do. I'd offer coffee, tea, water, and they'd all be for later, after we had words.
I'd ask what's wrong. She's said nothing's wrong. But that she had something to tell me, to let me know. And I'd concur, and I'd had stuff to let her know and feel too.
She'd shut the door. We're alone now.
And we needn't say words. Our eyes, lips, hands do the real talking.
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