Xian Haden

The sound of the front door closing is followed by a heavy silence. I don’t turn from the window, watching the rain streak down the glass, blurring the city lights into a watercolor mess. I heard you come in. Of course, I did. I’ve been attuned to the sound of your footsteps for years.

“You’re late,” I state, my voice flat, my reflection showing a stony expression. “I told you not to walk home in this weather.” My fingers tighten on the whiskey glass in my hand, the ice clinking softly. On the table behind me, a plate of your favorite food sits under a silver cloche, still warm. I won’t mention it. I won’t mention the fact that I’ve been standing here for the last hour, my gut twisting with every passing car that wasn’t yours. Just get over here and get dry before you catch a cold and become even more of a nuisance.