The café was getting more crowded. Every time the door opened, there was a rush of cool air. A few people stood in clusters by the door waiting for tables. Others stood by the bookshelves, talking, as if they were at a bar or a party. Marg had finished her second latte. She asked Sylvia for the details of Hugh’s illness and listened with concern. She wiped her eyes, not at the worst point (not when they were talking about the kids, the pain, how Hugh had known—he had just known—before the doctor sat them down and told them the news) but when Sylvia said she felt sad, already, to see Hugh’s jackets hanging in their front entry. She had not pushed again about visiting. Sylvia would give in, it would just take time—not a lot—but enough. They would both know when it was enough.
Sylvia looked out the window. The whiteness of the snow lit up the late afternoon, casting an uncanny luminescent blue glow over the street, the cars, the shoppers. Marg and Sylvia hugged quickly, and Sylvia watched as Marg walked out the door, her book bag resting on her hip, her stride confident.
Sylvia was holding the empty teapot. She put it in the dirty dishes bin and moved to the book tables at the back of the store. The buzz of activity from the front of the store was muffled by books and carpets and hushed conversations.