That had been their arrangement for forty one years, and it had worked because they were a team. Two people, one life, divided sensibly down the middle. That was before March. He finished his coffee standing at the kitchen window, looking out at the east field where the light was just starting to come up gold across the rows.
He’d put the kettle on twice that morning without thinking — old habit, the second cup always hers. The first time he’d caught himself he’d stood there for a moment with the empty mug in his hand before setting it back on the hook. The second time he’d just let the kettle boil and poured the cup and left it on the counter going cold because it seemed worse somehow to put it away.