Ruth told Leonard he should leave, then moved closer before either of them could pretend she meant it.
The porch light hummed above them. A late rain had left the railing wet and the street black and shining. Leonard stood with his hat in one hand like an old movie gentleman, sixty-nine and too decent for the thoughts crossing his face.
Ruth was forty-seven, still in the burgundy dress from the fundraiser, shoes off, hair loose from the pins that had behaved all evening. She had opened the door only to say goodnight. That was the version a sensible woman could defend.
You should go home, she said.
I know.
But he did not move. Worse, she liked that he did not move. Leonard had spent the night being careful with her, listening when louder men performed, laughing only when something was truly funny. Careful men could be exhausting. They could also make a woman wonder what they were holding back.
Ruth stepped out onto the porch. The boards creaked under her bare feet. Leonard looked down at them, then away, and that shy little retreat did more damage than any bold line could have.
You are making this difficult, he said.
No, Ruth answered. I am making it honest.
The words surprised her after she said them. Honest meant lonely rooms, long dinners, years of being praised for behaving while desire sat quietly in the corner. Honest meant Leonard looking at her like she was still capable of ruining a man's sleep.
She touched the doorframe, not him. Leonard noticed the restraint. Then Ruth opened the door another inch and let the warm hall light spill over them both.
