I read it three times.
My first instinct was to delete it.
My second—the one sounding a lot like Margaret—was to find out where I stood.
I replied:
Tomorrow, 2 p.m. The coffee shop on Halsted.
Vanessa was already there when I arrived.
She sat at a corner table with both hands around an untouched paper cup.
She looked smaller than she had on Christmas Eve.
No wine bottle.
No borrowed poise.
She stood halfway when she saw me.
Then sat again, unsure of her own rules.
I sat across from her without removing my coat.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I’ll keep this short.”
