Sylvia had locked every door in that house for thirty years. Habit, mostly. A woman living alone learns habits, and then the habits start living with her.
That night she left the bedroom door half open. She told herself it was because the hall light made the room warmer. The explanation sounded reasonable until she heard Thomas's footsteps stop outside it.
Thomas had come over to fix a loose cabinet hinge. That was the neighborly version. The truthful version was that he had been finding reasons to visit since April, and Sylvia had been finding reasons to let him.
She stood near the lamp in a soft lounge dress, covered but aware of the shape of the moment. At her age, suspense felt better than rushing. It let a woman keep control of the room.
Thomas did not knock. He said her name from the hallway, low and careful. Sylvia touched the edge of the door with two fingers.
She could have closed it. Instead, she opened it another inch and waited to see whether he understood the difference.
Thomas stayed in the hallway. That restraint made Sylvia's pulse lift more than a bold step would have. Men often thought permission had to be loud. Sylvia preferred a man who could hear it whispered through a gap in a door.
He asked if she wanted him to leave. The question was decent, maybe even sweet. It also gave her the power back, which was why she answered slowly.
No, she said, but she did not move aside yet. The lamp warmed the edge of the door. The house held its breath. After all those years of locked rooms, Sylvia wanted to enjoy the sound of a choice being made.
