The coffee pot was half full when Nolan came into the kitchen. He did not usually wake before the alarm, but his work boots were already tied, the dark leather stiff from the early autumn dew.
I stood by the counter, measuring the coffee grounds with the old metal scoop that had belonged to my mother. The chrome on our vintage toaster had a mirror finish that showed a distorted, silver view of the room.
In that curved reflection, Nolan looked wider and shorter than he was, a gray shape shifting against the pale pine of our kitchen cabinets.
He was holding a small black velvet box in his right hand.
He did not set it down on the counter. He stood by the refrigerator, his thumb running slowly over the hinge of the box, over and over.
“You are up early,” I said.
“I had some things on my mind,” he said.
His voice was low, the flat tone he used when he was keeping his shoulders tight. He did not look at me, focusing instead on the black liquid dripping into the glass carafe.
I reached up and touched my bare neck, my fingers finding the empty space where my silver chain used to rest. I had taken it off three years ago when the clasp broke, and I had never replaced it.
“Is the coffee ready?” he asked.
“Almost,” I said.
He took two ceramic mugs from the cupboard, his movements slow and deliberate. He did not place the black velvet box on the counter, instead slipping it deep into his trouser pocket.
The fabric of his trousers bulged slightly with the shape of the square box.
“We should eat at the table today,” he said.
We usually ate our toast standing up by the sink, looking out at the gravel driveway. I watched him carry the mugs to the wooden table in the corner.
He sat in the chair that faced the window, leaving his back to the hallway where the bedrooms were.
By eight o’clock, the sun was high enough to hit the edge of the table. Nolan had barely touched his rye toast, leaving it to go cold and hard on his paper plate.
