Zahra opens the paper packet and tilts it slightly so the tikkis slide onto the plate. A bit of chutney has leaked to one corner. She turns the plate once with her fingers and leaves it between us.
“They were still making these,” she says. “Oil was too hot, though.”
I fill the kettle and set it on the stove. From the table, she keeps talking without raising her voice.
“They’ve changed the format again. Forty-five minutes now.”
“That’s short,” I say.
“It is,” she says. “People take time to start.”
The flame stays low. I add tea leaves, ginger, milk. The sound rises and settles.
“In Pune last week?” I ask.
“Pune, then Bangalore,” she says. “Back here for two days. Jaipur tomorrow.”
I bring the cups out. She has already taken one piece and broken it in half against the edge of the plate.
“There was a group in Bangalore,” she says. “Quiet in the beginning.”
“New team?”
“No,” she says. “They knew each other. Still quiet.”
I sit.
“What changed?”
“One person spoke,” she says. “After that, it moved.”
She eats, then wipes her fingers on the inside of the paper itself, folding the oily part inward.
“They think shorter sessions are efficient,” she adds. “It just makes the first half disappear.”
“You’re supposed to manage that?” I ask.
“The start?” she says. “Yes.”
“And you do?”
“You don’t ask directly,” she says. “You come at it from the side.”
“What does that sound like?”
She gives a small shake of her head, like the example is unnecessary. “You ask something that doesn’t feel like a question.”
I wait, but she doesn’t supply one.
“People respond better when it feels optional,” she says.
“Is it optional?” I ask.
“No,” she says.
We eat for a moment without speaking.
The fan clicks once each turn. She looks at the window, then back at the table.
“Do you get the same kind of groups?” I ask.
“It varies,” she says. “Different companies. Same pattern.”
“How?”
“They don’t think they’ll say anything,” she says. “Then they do.”
“Quickly?”
“Sometimes,” she says. “Faster than expected. Like that piece on Tara. People say more than they planned to.”
I nod.
“And after?” I ask.
“They go back to work,” she says.
No emphasis.
“You keep in touch with anyone?” I ask.
“No.”
“Not even one?”
“No.”
She reaches for her cup, drinks, and places it a little away from the plate this time, leaving a faint ring on the table.
“You’re back for how long?” I ask.
“Two days,” she says. “Then Jaipur.”
“And then?”
“They’ll send the next schedule.”
She shifts the plate slightly closer to me without looking at it.
“They’ve started asking for feedback mid-session,” she says. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“People fill it?”
“They do.”
“What do they write?”
“What sounds right,” she says. “Or what they think is expected.”
A small pause.
“They function well,” she adds. “Most of them.”
She glances at me briefly. “Like that Noor piece. Everything in place. Nothing actually said.”
I nod.
For a few seconds, there’s only the fan and the traffic outside.
“And at home?” I ask.
She looks at me.
“At home what?”
“The same kind of conversations,” I say.
A short pause.
“No,” she says.
She moves the empty paper aside with the back of her hand.
“There’s no need,” she adds.
“Why not?”
“They don’t ask like that,” she says.
“Who?”
She doesn’t answer.
Instead, she says, “There was a team in Jaipur last month…”
She doesn’t answer.
Instead, she shifts slightly in her chair, not away, just enough that the light from the window falls differently across her face. It catches along her cheekbone and the side of her neck. Her hair is still tied low, but a few strands have come loose near the nape. They stay there. She doesn’t move them.
“There was a team in Jaipur last month,” she says.
Her kurta has creased more along the shoulder now, where the fabric folds when she leans forward. Pale blue, softened with use. The sleeves are still rolled once. Nothing about it looks adjusted.
“They didn’t want to start,” she continues. “Not because they were quiet.”
I wait.
“They already knew what would come up,” she says. “They just didn’t want to be the one to say it first.”
“About work?”
“Yes,” she says. “But not only that.”
She takes another piece from the plate, not looking at it, just reaching where it was before.
“One of them kept talking about deadlines,” she says. “Dates, numbers. Things that can be checked.”
“And the others?”
“They didn’t correct him,” she says. “Not exactly. Just… changed the sentence while he was still speaking.”
I nod.
“Then it stopped being about deadlines,” she says.
“How?”
“They started saying things they hadn’t planned to say,” she replies.
A pause.
“Not to me,” she adds. “To each other.”
I don’t respond.
“They were careful with me,” she says. “But not with each other.”
“And that’s when it works?” I ask.
“It works before that,” she says. “That’s just when you can see it.”
She looks at the table for a moment.
“Like that Noor piece,” she says. “Everything moving. Nothing actually said.”
She doesn’t look at me when she says it.
“Everything moving. Nothing actually said.”
Her fingers rest on the table, still for a moment, then shift just enough to press against the wood, as if testing its surface. The loose strands of hair near her neck catch against the collar of her kurta. She doesn’t move them away.
I ask, “And you notice that immediately?”
“Not immediately,” she says. “But early.”
“How?”
She doesn’t answer that.
Instead, she says, “There was a cab in Bangalore. Late evening. I’d just finished.”
I don’t interrupt.
“He asked where I was coming from,” she continues. “I told him.”
“And then?”
“He asked what I do,” she says.
“What did you say?”
“The usual,” she replies. “Training. Workshops.”
“And that was enough?”
“No,” she says.
A short pause.
“He asked what that means,” she adds.
“And you explained?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
She glances at me briefly, then back at the table.
“I said I ask people questions they don’t expect,” she says.
I wait.
“He said, ‘Like what?’”
“And?”
She presses her thumb once against the side of her cup, then lets it rest there.
“I told him something,” she says.
“What?”
She takes a breath, not deep, just enough to hold the next sentence steady.
“I said I ask them what they don’t say at home.”
The line sits between us.
“And he answered?” I ask.
She nods.
“He told me about his wife,” she says. “About how they don’t talk unless it’s necessary.”
Her voice doesn’t change.
“He said it like he was reporting something,” she adds.
“And you?” I ask.
“I said something back,” she says.
“What?”
She pauses.
The fan continues its slow rotation above us.
“I told him I don’t say much at home either,” she says.
I don’t respond.
She continues, almost in the same breath,
“He laughed,” she says. “Said it’s easier with people you won’t see again.”
A small pause.
“And?” I ask.
She looks at me now.
“I didn’t disagree,” she says.
The sentence lands without weight.
“And at home?” I ask.
Her gaze drops again, not sharply, just enough to leave the question unanswered for a second too long.
“They don’t ask like that,” she says again.
I don’t repeat the question.
She adds, after a moment,
“And I don’t answer like that.”
She doesn’t move after saying it.
“And I don’t answer like that.”
The words stay where they are, not pushed further.
Her trousers are darker than the kurta, plain, slightly creased at the knees where the fabric gathers when she sits. One foot is tucked back under the chair, the other flat on the floor. Her sandals rest close to the leg of the table. No sound when she shifts them, just a small change in angle.
I ask, “Do they ask at all?”
“They do,” she says.
“What do they ask?”
“Where I am,” she replies. “When I’ll be back.”
“And?”
“I tell them,” she says.
“That’s it?”
She nods once.
A pause.
“In sessions,” I say, “you don’t start like that.”
“No,” she says.
“What do you start with?”
She thinks for a second, not searching, just holding the question.
“Something that sounds smaller,” she says.
“Like what?”
She looks at me, then away.
“Something that doesn’t feel like it matters,” she says.
“And then it does?”
She gives a slight nod.
Across from me, the crease near her shoulder has deepened. The fabric folds where her arm has stayed in the same position for too long.
“And at home?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she says, “There was a flight last month. Early morning.”
I wait.
“Window seat,” she adds. “Short flight.”
“And?”
“The person next to me started talking,” she says.
“About what?”
“Nothing specific,” she replies. “Just… things.”
I nod.
“He asked if I travel alone,” she says.
“And you?”
“I said yes.”
“And then?”
“He asked if it gets quiet,” she says.
“What did you say?”
She pauses.
“I said it doesn’t feel like that when I’m not home.”
The sentence is even.
“And he understood?” I ask.
“He didn’t need to,” she says.
A small pause.
“He said he talks more when he travels too,” she adds. “Said it feels easier.”
I nod.
“Like that Karan piece,” I say. “People staying longer in places where nothing is expected.”
She glances at me briefly, then back at the table.
“Yes,” she says.
The reference passes.
“And at home?” I ask again.
This time, she doesn’t look away.
“They already know me,” she says.
The answer comes quicker than before.
“And that changes what?” I ask.
She doesn’t respond.
Her hand shifts once on the table, then settles again.
The fan continues overhead.
“They don’t need to ask,” she says.
“And you don’t need to say?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer that.
Instead, she says, quieter,
“It doesn’t come out the same way.”
She doesn’t answer that.
Instead, she reaches for another piece, misses it slightly, then adjusts without looking and gets it on the second try.
“It doesn’t come out the same way,” she repeats.
“How does it come out?” I ask.
She doesn’t respond directly.
“At home,” she says, “you already know the answer before the question is asked.”
“That’s not always true,” I say.
“It is most of the time,” she replies.
I let that sit.
She shifts her leg, the fabric of her trousers pulling slightly at the knee, then settling again.
“They ask things that are already decided,” she adds.
“Like?”
“When I’ll be back,” she says. “If I’ve eaten. If the meeting went fine.”
“And it did?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And that’s enough?”
She doesn’t say yes.
Instead, she says, “In the cab, he asked me if I miss being in one place.”
I don’t interrupt.
“I said no,” she continues. “Then I said sometimes.”
“What made you change it?” I ask.
“He didn’t react to the first answer,” she says.
“So you gave him another one?”
She nods.
“He waited,” she adds. “Like he had time.”
“And that mattered?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“At home, they don’t wait?” I ask.
“They don’t need to,” she says.
“Or you don’t give them anything to wait for,” I say.
She looks at me then. Not sharply. Just long enough that the question doesn’t pass cleanly.
“That’s not how it works,” she says.
“How does it work?” I ask.
She opens her mouth, then stops.
For a moment, it looks like she might answer.
Instead, she says, “There was someone in a session who said he only talks properly on calls with customer support.”
I don’t react.
“He said they ask clearly,” she continues. “They don’t assume.”
“And at home?”
“They assume,” she says.
“Correctly?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
Her hand presses lightly against the table, then lifts again.
“They know the outline,” she says. “They don’t ask for the rest.”
“And you don’t give it,” I say.
She exhales once, not loudly.
“They don’t need it,” she says.
The sentence comes out quickly.
Almost before I can respond, she adds,
“And I don’t… I don’t know what I would say if they did.”
The line lands unevenly.
She straightens slightly, as if correcting it.
“I mean,” she says, “it wouldn’t be useful.”
I don’t correct her.
“You think it’s useful with strangers?” I ask.
She pauses.
“No,” she says.
“Then why say it?” I ask.
She looks at me, then away.
“Because it doesn’t stay,” she says.
That sits there.
“And if it did?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
Her gaze shifts past me, toward the doorway, as if something there needs checking.
Nothing does.
“They don’t ask like that,” she says again.
This time, it sounds less certain.
She says it again, but softer.
“They don’t ask like that.”
This time, it sounds like she is trying to convince herself the sentence still works.
I don’t repeat the question.
She sits back a little, not fully against the chair, just enough to change the angle of her shoulders. The crease along her kurta shifts with it, pulling slightly near the collarbone before settling again. Her face, in this light, looks narrower than before, the line of her jaw more defined when she turns even slightly to the side.
“In sessions,” she says, “you can wait.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For the second answer,” she says.
I nod.
“They always give one,” she adds.
“And at home?”
“They don’t,” she says.
“Or you don’t,” I say.
She doesn’t respond.
Instead, she says, “He asked me one more thing.”
“The driver?”
She nods.
“He asked if I talk like that with everyone,” she says.
“And?”
“I said no.”
“What did he say?”
She looks down at the table, not avoiding, just resting her gaze there.
“He said that’s strange,” she replies.
A small pause.
“He said it should be the other way,” she adds.
I don’t interrupt.
“And you?” I ask.
“I said it isn’t,” she says.
“Did he ask why?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
She lifts her eyes briefly, then looks past me again.
“I told him it’s easier when there’s no history,” she says.
The sentence lands clean.
“No history,” I repeat.
She nods.
“No expectation of how you’ll answer,” she adds. “Or how you’ve answered before.”
“And at home,” I say, “there is.”
“Yes.”
A short pause.
“So you stay consistent,” I say.
She looks at me.
“Yes.”
The word comes quickly.
“Even if it’s not accurate?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
Her fingers move once against the table, then stop.
“It avoids questions,” she says.
“And answers,” I add.
She doesn’t correct me.
Instead, she says, almost casually,
“They don’t ask me what I would say to someone in a cab.”
The line sits there, slightly off.
I don’t respond.
After a moment, she adds,
“And I don’t tell them.”
She says it like it has always been arranged that way.
“And I don’t tell them.”
I ask, “Would you?”
She takes a moment.
The answer doesn’t come immediately. It doesn’t come easily either.
“I don’t know,” she says.
The words are plain, but they sit differently from the others. Not finished. Not shaped.
I nod.
Across the table, her sleeve has slipped a little from where it was rolled, not fully down, just uneven now. She doesn’t fix it.
“In the cab,” I say, “you chose what to say.”
“Yes.”
“And what not to.”
“Yes.”
“And that felt easier.”
“It did.”
“Why?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
Her gaze stays on the table, then shifts to the edge of the plate, then back again. Not restless. Just moving.
“Because it ends,” she says.
The sentence is quiet.
“No follow-up,” she adds. “No next version of it.”
I watch her.
“At home, there is,” she continues. “If you say something once, it stays.”
“In what way?” I ask.
“They remember it,” she says.
“And that’s a problem?”
She looks at me, this time holding the look a second longer.
“It becomes the way you are,” she says.
I don’t respond.
“So you don’t say it,” I say.
She doesn’t agree. She doesn’t disagree.
Instead, she says, “In sessions, people say things they haven’t said before.”
I wait.
“And then they leave,” she adds.
The pattern sits there again.
“And at home?” I ask.
“They stay,” she says.
The word is simple.
It carries more weight than the others.
“They stay,” I repeat.
She nods once.
“And that changes what you can say,” I say.
She doesn’t answer.
Her hand moves slightly, then stops midway, as if the motion wasn’t necessary after all.
After a moment, she says,
“If I say something there, it doesn’t disappear.”
I nod.
“And here,” I ask, “you want it to?”
She doesn’t respond.
Her eyes shift past me again, not searching for anything, just not staying.
“I don’t think about it like that,” she says.
The sentence feels prepared.
I don’t challenge it.
After a pause, I ask,
“What would happen if it didn’t end?”
She doesn’t answer.
Not immediately.
Not after a few seconds either.
Then, quietly,
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
The words come out slower this time.
She doesn’t look at me when she says them.
She doesn’t take them back either.
She leaves the sentence where it is.
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
I don’t respond.
On the table, a faint mark has formed where her cup rested earlier. It hasn’t spread. Just a dull circle, darker than the wood.
I ask, “Do they ask you anything unexpected?”
She shakes her head once.
“No.”
“Not once?”
She thinks for a moment.
“They used to,” she says.
“And now?”
“They don’t,” she replies.
“Why?”
She doesn’t answer directly.
Instead, she says, “It takes time to ask something properly.”
I wait.
“And they don’t have that time?” I ask.
“They have it,” she says. “They don’t use it.”
“For you?”
She looks at me, then away.
“For what they already know,” she says.
I let that sit.
“And what don’t they know?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
Her fingers press lightly against the edge of the table, then release.
“There was a woman in a session last week,” she says. “Didn’t speak at all in the beginning.”
I nod.
“She kept writing things down,” Zahra continues. “Not looking up.”
“And then?”
“She asked one question,” Zahra says.
“What kind?”
“A small one,” she replies. “It didn’t sound important.”
“And it was?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“It changed what everyone else said after,” she says.
I watch her.
“What was the question?” I ask.
Zahra pauses.
“She asked if they were saying things because they believed them,” she says, “or because they had already said them before.”
The line lands.
I don’t interrupt.
“And that worked?” I ask.
Zahra nods.
“People stopped repeating,” she says.
“And started?”
“Saying something else.”
A short pause.
I ask, “Has anyone asked you that?”
She looks at me.
For a second, it feels like she might answer.
Then she says, “No.”
The answer is quick.
Too quick.
I don’t follow it.
Instead, I ask, “If they did?”
She doesn’t respond.
Her gaze shifts again, not to anything specific, just away from the table.
After a moment, she says,
“They wouldn’t.”
“Why not?” I ask.
She presses her lips together once, then releases them.
“Because it would change things,” she says.
“In what way?”
She doesn’t answer.
The room stays the same.
Nothing moves.
Then she says, quieter,
“It would stay.”
The word lingers longer than the others.
“It would stay.”
I let that sit for a moment.
“What would it change?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she says, “In a session, no one follows up the next day.”
“That’s the point?” I ask.
“It helps,” she says.
“How?”
“They don’t have to manage what they said,” she replies.
“And at home?”
“They do,” she says.
I nod.
“So they choose carefully,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And you?”
She looks at me.
“I don’t start,” she says.
“Start what?”
“Anything that needs… continuing,” she says.
The pause sits inside the sentence.
I don’t interrupt.
“You wait for them?” I ask.
“No,” she says.
“Then?”
“I keep it simple,” she replies.
“How simple?”
“Enough,” she says.
“That’s not an answer.”
She doesn’t react to that.
Instead, she says, “In the cab, he told me something before he dropped me.”
I wait.
“He said he sometimes takes longer routes,” she says.
“To earn more?”
She shakes her head.
“To avoid reaching early,” she says.
I look at her.
“He said if he reaches too early, there’s more time to sit at home,” she adds.
“And he doesn’t want that?”
“He didn’t say it like that,” she replies.
“How did he say it?”
“He said the car is quieter,” she says.
A pause.
“And you?” I ask.
“I said nothing,” she replies.
“That’s new,” I say.
She gives a small look, not quite a reaction.
“I had already said enough,” she adds.
“For him?” I ask.
“For that,” she says.
I let it pass.
“And at home?” I ask again.
She exhales once.
“They don’t take longer routes,” she says.
The sentence lands oddly.
I don’t correct it.
“They come home,” she adds.
“And you?”
“I’m already there,” she says.
A pause.
“Do you talk?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“Things that need to be said,” she replies.
“And things that don’t?”
She looks at me.
“They don’t come up,” she says.
“Or you don’t bring them up,” I say.
She doesn’t answer.
Instead, she asks, “Do you?”
The question is abrupt.
I don’t respond.
She nods once, as if the lack of answer is expected.
Then she says,
“It’s not the same.”
“It’s not the same.”
I don’t respond to that.
She looks at me for a moment, as if she might add something, then doesn’t. Instead, she reaches for the last piece on the plate and breaks it without really noticing how uneven it is.
I ask, “What isn’t the same?”
She doesn’t answer directly.
“At home,” she says, “if you start something, it doesn’t stop where you leave it.”
“That happens everywhere,” I say.
“No,” she says, a little quicker than before. “Not like that.”
“How then?”
She pauses.
“In a cab, you can say something and let it stay there,” she says. “It doesn’t get picked up again the next day. Or next week. No one refers back to it.”
“And that matters.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She shifts slightly, her back still straight, but her shoulders no longer held in quite the same way. The crease along her sleeve has deepened where her arm rests.
“Because you don’t have to be consistent,” she says.
“With what?”
“With what you said before,” she replies.
I nod.
“And at home?”
“You do,” she says.
“Even if it’s not true anymore?”
She doesn’t answer that.
Instead, she says, “He asked me something else.”
“The driver?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“He asked if I would stop travelling,” she says.
“And?”
“I said no.”
“Immediately?”
She nods.
“And then?”
She hesitates.
“I said I could,” she adds.
I wait.
“But I won’t.”
The sentence comes out quieter.
“Did he ask why?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you say?”
She looks at the table, then at me, then back again, like she’s deciding how much of it to repeat.
“I said it’s easier to keep moving than to explain why you stayed,” she says.
The line lands unevenly, like it came out faster than she intended.
I don’t respond.
She notices that, and adds, almost correcting herself,
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it?” I ask.
She opens her mouth, then closes it again.
There’s a small pause that stretches a little longer than the others.
“I don’t know,” she says.
It’s the first time she hasn’t adjusted the answer after saying it.
I nod once.
“And at home?” I ask.
She lets out a short breath, not quite a sigh.
“They don’t ask why I stay,” she says.
“And you don’t tell them anyway.”
She looks at me.
“No,” she says.
A pause.
“Because?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
Her fingers press once against the table again, then lift.
“They already think they know,” she says.
“And they’re wrong?” I ask.
She holds my gaze for a second longer than before.
Then looks away.
“I don’t check,” she says.
She says, “It fits,” and then doesn’t add anything to it.
I don’t ask another version of the same question.
Instead, I say, “When was the last time someone asked you something you didn’t answer?”
She looks at me, then away, like she already knows the answer but isn’t sure how to place it here.
“A few weeks ago,” she says.
“At home?”
She nods.
“What did they ask?”
She takes a second.
“He asked if I was tired,” she says.
“That’s not unexpected.”
“No,” she says. “But he didn’t mean work.”
I wait.
“He asked if I was tired of coming back,” she adds.
The sentence lands without weight, but it doesn’t move.
“And?”
“I said no,” she says.
“Were you?”
She doesn’t answer.
Instead, she says, “He asked again later.”
“What did you say the second time?”
“The same thing,” she says.
“And after that?”
She pauses.
“He stopped asking,” she says.
I don’t respond.
Her hand moves once across the table, not reaching for anything, just passing over the surface before settling again.
“And you didn’t say anything after?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why?”
She looks at me.
“He had already asked,” she says.
“That’s when you answer properly,” I say.
She shakes her head.
“No,” she says. “That’s when it becomes… something else.”
“What?”
She doesn’t answer directly.
“If I said something different the second time,” she says, “then the first answer becomes wrong.”
“And?”
“And then we have to talk about that,” she says.
I let that sit.
“So you kept it the same,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Even if it wasn’t.”
She doesn’t respond.
There’s a short silence.
Then she says, almost as if it belongs to a different conversation,
“In the cab, when he asked the second time, I didn’t give the same answer.”
I look at her.
“You said you did,” I say.
“I said I changed it,” she replies.
“You added to it.”
“Yes.”
“And that was fine.”
She nods.
“Why?”
She thinks for a moment.
“Because he didn’t remember the first one the same way,” she says.
I watch her.
“So it didn’t matter if it changed,” I say.
“No,” she says.
“And at home?”
She looks at me.
“It would,” she says.
The sentence stays there.
Then, after a moment, quieter,
“He hasn’t asked again.”
“He hasn’t asked again.”
I don’t say anything to that.
She sits with it for a moment, then reaches for the glass of water instead of the tea. The glass is cool, a faint line of condensation running down one side. She holds it there, not drinking immediately.
“Do you want him to?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer straight.
“If he asks again,” she says, “it won’t be the same question.”
“What would it be?”
She looks at me.
“It would be about why I said no,” she says.
“And that’s harder.”
She nods once.
“It’s not just answering then,” she adds. “It’s explaining.”
“And you don’t want to explain.”
She doesn’t respond to that.
Instead, she says, “In sessions, when someone says something and then changes it later, no one goes back to the first version.”
I wait.
“They accept the second one,” she says. “Or the third. It doesn’t matter which.”
“And at home?”
She shifts slightly in her chair. The fabric of her kurta pulls again near the shoulder, then settles.
“They remember the first one,” she says.
“More than the others?”
“Yes.”
I nod.
“So you keep it the same,” I say.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Even if it’s not right,” I add.
She doesn’t correct me.
Her gaze moves past me again, not focused on anything.
“He waited the second time,” she says, returning to the cab. “Didn’t repeat the question. Just stayed quiet.”
“And that helped.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I filled it,” she says.
“With what?”
She takes a sip of water now.
“Something closer to what I meant,” she replies.
“And at home?”
She looks at me.
“They don’t wait like that,” she says.
I don’t interrupt.
“They move on,” she adds.
“And you let them.”
She nods.
A small pause.
Then, almost as if it slips out before she decides to hold it back,
“If they waited, I don’t know what I’d say.”
“He hasn’t asked again.”
I don’t respond.
She finishes the water and sets the glass down, not in the same place it was before.
“He was in the kitchen,” she says after a moment. “That day.”
I wait.
“I had just come back,” she adds. “Late.”
“And?”
“He asked if I wanted tea,” she says.
“What did you say?”
“No.”
A pause.
“He made it anyway,” she adds.
I don’t interrupt.
“He asked about the session,” she says. “I told him it went fine.”
“And it did?”
“Yes.”
“And that was it?”
She nods.
“He stood there for a bit,” she says. “Like he was going to say something else.”
“And?”
“He didn’t,” she replies.
“Why?”
She shrugs, a small movement.
“I had already answered,” she says.
I let that sit.
“What would you have said if he had asked again?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Her gaze stays on the table, then shifts slightly, then settles again.
“I don’t know,” she says.
“And if he had waited?”
She looks at me.
“He doesn’t wait like that,” she says.
“That’s not what I asked.”
A pause.
“If he had,” she says slowly, “then it wouldn’t have been about the session.”
“What would it have been about?”
She doesn’t answer.
Her fingers move once, then stop.
“Something else,” she says.
“What else?”
She shakes her head, not refusing, just not continuing.
I wait.
“He asked later,” she says instead. “That night.”
“What did he ask?”
“If I was coming back for the weekend,” she says.
“And?”
“I said yes.”
“Were you?”
She doesn’t respond.
Instead, she says, “He didn’t ask anything after that.”
I nod.
“And you didn’t say anything.”
“No.”
A short pause.
Then she adds, quieter,
“I had time to.”
I look at her.
“And you didn’t,” I say.
She shakes her head.
“No.”
“Why?”
She takes a second.
Then says,
“It would have changed the next day.”
“It would have changed the next day.”
I don’t respond to that.
She sits with it, then shifts slightly, pulling her foot back under the chair again. The fabric of her trousers tightens briefly along the knee, then loosens when she settles.
“What would have changed?” I ask.
She looks at me, then away.
“He would have asked again,” she says.
“And that’s a problem.”
She nods.
“It wouldn’t stay small,” she adds.
I wait.
“It would turn into something we have to keep coming back to,” she says.
“And you don’t want that.”
She doesn’t answer directly.
Instead, she says, “He used to ask more.”
“When?”
“Earlier,” she says. “Before.”
“Before what?”
She doesn’t complete it.
I let the sentence remain unfinished.
“What did you do then?” I ask.
“Answered,” she says.
“Differently?”
She nods once.
“And?”
She takes a second.
“It didn’t stop,” she says.
“What didn’t?”
“The questions,” she replies.
A pause.
“They changed,” she adds. “But they didn’t stop.”
I watch her.
“And now they have,” I say.
She nods.
“That’s better?” I ask.
She doesn’t say yes.
But she doesn’t say no either.
Instead, she says, “It’s quieter.”
The word lands flat.
“And that works for you.”
“It works,” she says.
I let that sit.
“And for him?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
Her gaze stays on the table, fixed this time.
After a moment, she says,
“He still asks small things.”
“Like?”
“What time I’ll be back,” she says. “If I’ve eaten.”
“And you answer those.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s enough.”
She doesn’t respond.
I wait.
Then I ask,
“Does he think it’s enough?”
She looks at me.
For a second, it feels like she might answer.
Then she says,
“He doesn’t ask anything else.”
The sentence closes itself.
I don’t push.
After a moment, I say,
“That’s not the same as enough.”
She doesn’t respond.
Her hand moves slightly, then rests again.
Then, almost quietly,
“He used to wait,” she says.
I look at her.
“Like the driver?” I ask.
She nods.
“But he stopped,” she adds.
A pause.
“Why?” I ask.
She looks at me.
Because I didn’t give him anything to wait for.”
“Because I didn’t give him anything to wait for.”
I don’t answer that immediately.
She keeps looking at me for a second longer than she has before, then looks away, as if the sentence has already done more than she meant it to.
“When did he stop?” I ask.
She thinks. Not searching. Counting something she already knows.
“After that week,” she says. “The one I didn’t come back for.”
“You said you would,” I say.
She nods.
“I always say I will,” she replies.
“And then?”
“Sometimes I don’t,” she says.
A small pause.
“What did you tell him?” I ask.
“That the schedule changed,” she says. “That they extended it.”
“Did they?”
She doesn’t answer. The silence is enough.
I wait.
“He didn’t argue,” she adds. “He just said okay.”
“And that was it.”
“Yes.”
The word comes out flat.
I watch her.
“Did you call?” I ask.
“No.”
“Message?”
“No.”
“And he?”
“He sent one,” she says.
“What did it say?”
She looks at the table again, but this time there is something like a line she’s reading, not the wood.
“Just asked if I’d eaten,” she says.
“And you?”
“I said yes.”
“Had you?”
She shakes her head, once.
I don’t respond.
She adds, almost as if it’s part of the same answer,
“It’s easier to say yes to that.”
“Why?”
“It ends there,” she says.
“And if you said no?”
“He would have asked more,” she replies.
“What kind of more?”
She takes a breath, not deep, just enough to hold the next sentence in place.
“Why not. When will you. Do you want me to…” she trails, then stops. “Things that don’t stop in one message.”
I nod.
“And you didn’t want that.”
She doesn’t answer.
Instead, she says, “After that, he stopped asking the second thing.”
“What second thing?”
She looks at me.
“The one that comes after ‘have you eaten,’” she says.
I let that sit.
“And you noticed.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Later,” she says. “Not immediately.”
“Did you say anything then?”
She shakes her head.
“No.”
“Why?”
She looks at me, steady this time.
“Because then I would have to explain why I noticed,” she says.
I don’t interrupt.
“And that would be…” I begin.
“Longer,” she says. “And it wouldn’t end there.”
A pause.
“So you kept it as it is.”
“Yes.”
“Even if it changed.”
She doesn’t correct me.
Her hand moves to the edge of the table and stays there, fingers resting without pressing.
After a moment, she says, quieter than before,
“He doesn’t wait now.”
I nod.
“And you don’t either,” I say.
She doesn’t answer.
For a few seconds, neither of us speaks.
Then she says,
“In the cab, when I didn’t answer the first time, he didn’t move on.”
“In the cab, when I didn’t answer the first time, he didn’t move on.”
She says it more slowly now, as if placing it back into the room instead of just referring to it.
“He didn’t repeat it either,” she adds. “He just… stayed with it.”
I nod.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“He didn’t fill it,” she says. “Didn’t ask something else instead.”
A small pause.
“He let it be there.”
“And that helped,” I say.
She tilts her head slightly, not quite agreeing.
“It made it harder to ignore,” she says.
“Harder than here?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Here, she almost says, then stops.
“At home, if I don’t answer, it…” she trails, then restarts, “it changes shape.”
“How?”
“They assume something else,” she says. “Or they drop it.”
“Which is worse?”
She gives a brief, uncertain breath.
“I don’t know. It depends.”
“On what?”
She shakes her head, like that’s not the point.
“In the cab, he waited,” she says again, returning to it. “Not like— not in a way that was… obvious.”
“Then how?”
“He just didn’t move the conversation,” she says. “Like he didn’t need to.”
“And you noticed that.”
“Yes.”
“And you said more.”
She nods.
“Not all at once,” she adds. “Just… after a bit.”
“What did you say?” I ask.
She presses her fingers lightly into the table, then releases them.
“I said I don’t stay in one place long enough to have the same conversation twice,” she says.
I wait.
“And?” I ask.
“And he said that sounds tiring,” she replies.
A pause.
“Was it?” I ask.
She almost smiles, but doesn’t.
“I told him no,” she says.
Then, after a second,
“I told him I prefer it.”
The second sentence lands differently.
“Which one was true?” I ask.
She looks at me, then away, then back again.
“I don’t know,” she says. “It… depends on when you ask.”
“And at home?”
She lets out a small breath.
“They ask at the same time every day,” she says.
“And you give the same answer.”
She nods.
“Even if it changes,” I say.
She doesn’t respond.
Her hand shifts once, then stills.
“They don’t wait,” she says again, quieter now.
This time, it doesn’t sound like a complaint.
It sounds like something she has arranged herself.
She says, “They don’t wait,” and then doesn’t add anything to it.
I don’t go back to the earlier question.
Instead, I say, “What happens when you do?”
“When I do what?”
“Say something different,” I say. “Not the same answer.”
She looks at me like she’s about to dismiss it, then doesn’t.
“It doesn’t land,” she says.
“How do you know?”
She shifts, just slightly, her shoulder moving before the rest of her settles again.
“I tried once,” she says.
I wait.
“It was nothing big,” she adds quickly. “Just… not the usual.”
“What did you say?”
She presses her lips together for a moment.
“He asked if I’d eaten,” she says. “I said no.”
“And?”
“He asked why,” she says.
“That’s normal.”
“Yes,” she says. “But then I had to answer that.”
“And you didn’t want to.”
She shakes her head.
“I didn’t have anything ready,” she says.
I don’t interrupt.
“So I said something else,” she adds.
“What?”
“That I’d been busy,” she says.
“And that worked.”
“It ended there,” she says.
A pause.
“And the first answer?”
She looks at me.
“It became… unnecessary,” she says.
I nod.
There’s a stretch of silence that doesn’t feel planned.
Then she says, almost at the same time as I start to speak,
“I think—”
“Do you think—”
We both stop.
She lets out a short breath, not quite a laugh.
“You go,” she says.
“No,” I reply. “You started.”
She shakes her head.
“It’s nothing,” she says.
“Say it.”
She hesitates.
Then says, quickly, like it might not hold if she slows down,
“I think I talk more when it doesn’t matter.”
The sentence sits there.
I don’t respond immediately.
She looks at me, as if waiting for a reaction, then looks away before I give one.
“That sounds worse than I meant it,” she says.
“Does it?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
Her fingers tap once against the table, then stop.
“It’s just…” she starts, then stops again.
“Just what?” I ask.
She looks at me.
Then says, flat,
“If it matters, it stays.”
The line lands a little off.
Not quite something you say across a table like this.
I don’t correct it.
I just sit there with it.
And she doesn’t take it back.
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