Outside, the porch light was a yellow bulb that cast long, harsh shadows across his face. He looked pale, almost gray, as he held the phone to his ear.
He spoke in quick, sharp whispers, his shoulders hunched against the wind.
His left hand was in his pocket, but I could see his thumb moving, likely twisting his ring through the fabric.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the kitchen door.
I could not hear his words, only the low rumble of his voice through the wood.
He looked back once, his eyes meeting mine through the glass, but he did not stop talking.
He turned his back to me, stepping closer to the railing where the dark yard began.
I touched the white gold bracelet on my wrist, the metal cold against my skin.
The light on the porch caught the edge of his phone as he finally lowered it from his ear.
