After Hours is a romance column: sensual, non-explicit fiction for grown-up readers. All characters are invented adults; any resemblance to real persons is coincidental.
Vera and Thomas, part six.
For four days the letter from Stockholm lived in the inside pocket of Vera’s work coat, where it went everywhere she went and was consulted by no one. At the bench she repaired the spine of a Dutch atlas and rehoused a box of Civil War receipts and answered a curator’s question about foxing with such crisp authority that the curator thanked her twice. At night she lay awake composing an email that began, variously, I am delighted to accept and After careful consideration, and sent neither.
Thomas did not ask. That was the remarkable thing. He texted her a photograph of a rusted bolt from a bridge inspection in Ridgewood, captioned “Ninety years old and still holding. Thought of you, which you may take as a compliment.” He called on Wednesday to tell her a story about his sister’s dog. He did not once say the word February, and by Friday she understood that he was waiting on purpose, the way you wait for glue to cure.
So on Saturday she asked him to meet her at the Whitehall terminal at nine, and told him to dress for wind.
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