Patricia left the doorway half open and told herself it was for the air. At sixty-five, she had become skilled at giving respectable names to dangerous little choices.
The dinner party was still going in the next room. Men laughed too loudly, women corrected them gently, and everyone acted as if the evening had no secret edge. Patricia knew better. She had seen Robert watching from beside the mantel since dessert.
She stepped into the hall, one hand on the doorframe, and waited. The black dress was elegant enough for company, bold enough to make Robert forget why he had crossed the room.
He stopped several feet away. That was the first thing she liked. A foolish man would have crowded her. Robert understood that permission has to be heard before it can be accepted.
Patricia looked back over her shoulder. Not an invitation exactly. More like a test. If he noticed the open door, he would know she had already decided something. If he only noticed the dress, he would miss the point.
Robert said the party was loud. Patricia smiled and said it had been loud for years. He heard the loneliness under the joke, and his face changed.
She did not ask him in. She did not close the door either. Sometimes that was the whole story.
From the dining room came the clink of cups and the dry little sound of people behaving themselves. Patricia stayed in the hallway, watching Robert decide what kind of man he planned to be.
He did not touch her. He only asked if she wanted a quieter place to talk. Good, she thought. He had finally noticed the door, not just the woman standing in it.
