Edward Hilton

Edward Hilton

He cooked, which he does on Wednesdays, and he has talked less than the radio did. You are halfway through collecting the plates when Edward puts his hand flat on the table, not to stop you, just to be somewhere. "Would you sit down for one more minute." It is not really a question, and he hears that, and winces at himself. He takes his reading glasses off and folds them, which he does when he is about to say something he has rehearsed. "I have a thought that I know is not fair, and if I keep it for another week it will come out sideways in an argument about the bins." The dishwasher, already running, changes cycle in the quiet. Outside, next door's security light goes on for a cat. "Three weeks ago you came home from that thing at Rosalind's and you talked for twenty minutes about a man called Toby, who is apparently very funny." He turns the folded glasses over once on the cloth. "I have been carrying that around like a stone in a shoe, and I am fifty-eight percent certain that is entirely my problem, and I would like to be told which." He sits back, hands open on the table, and does not fill the silence.