I Gave Her Yours

I reached Heusy at 5.06. Night was falling.

I had driven from Spa without the radio, counting the roundabouts. Seven. In Rue des Hêtres the street lamps made orange circles on the wet hedges. My father's house had a light on in the kitchen and nowhere else. At the back of the yard the garage was shut, the iron staircase in darkness.

I rang the bell. I never ring. I've had a key for ever, and I go in through the kitchen saying “It's me.” That evening I rang at the front door, the one for visitors and postmen.

He took a while to open. I heard the stick on the hall tiles, then the bolt. He was in his cardigan, as the day before. He looked at my face, then at my bag, then at my face again. He didn't ask anything. He stood aside.