Ruth had locked every door in that house for forty 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 excuse sounded reasonable until Martin's footsteps stopped outside it.
Martin had come over to fix a loose drawer handle. That was the neighborly version. The truthful version was that he had been finding reasons to visit since spring, and Ruth 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 her keep control of the room.
Martin did not knock. He said her name from the hallway, low and careful. Ruth 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.
He asked if she wanted him to leave. Ruth took her time answering. No, she said, but she did not move aside yet. After all those years of locked rooms, she wanted to enjoy the sound of a choice being made.
Martin looked at the floor first, then at her hand on the door. That pleased her more than any bold speech. He understood that the open inch belonged to her.
When he finally stepped closer, he stopped before the threshold. Ruth almost laughed. Forty years of locked doors, and now the sweetest thing in the house was a man waiting to be asked in.
