Saturday arrived the way a fever does. Slow in the morning. Then all at once.

Lena woke to the sound of Owen in the kitchen. Not cooking yet. Moving chairs. She lay on the mattress and listened to wood scrape tile. He was making a triangle of seats around the small table. Two would have been enough for years. Three meant the day had started without her.

She got up and stood in the doorway in his shirt. Owen had already showered. His hair was damp. He wore the dark trousers she liked and a plain shirt with the sleeves rolled. No green shirt. He had thrown that one away...