One Last Ordinary Weekend

Heat still sits in the walk-up kitchen a little after six. A bus rolls down Binder Street under the window. The fridge hums around the cooler Claire already put away.

Three paper packets lie on the counter, times written in the margins. Claire Hofman has gathered them into one hand; the car key is caught against her palm. Dark hair in a low knot. She checks her watch without needing to. The offered hand stays out.

Riley Voss's canvas tote slips her bare shoulder. She hitches the strap and it starts to go again. High ponytail. Scuffed sneakers; the right heel has already rubbed a raw line. She has stepped into the gap beside the counter, close enough that the tote ticks the wood.

Claire: Six-oh-seven. Helm's is a courtyard table — they will not hold it past seven. There is the river-ferry bench if you would rather be outside, or the night market if you want to walk. You pick first.

Riley: Night market. I want the night market. We walk, we eat standing, I get the string lights — just this once. You want that one, right?

Claire's brow tightens for a span that is hard to catch. She does not look at Riley. The packets stay where she held them out. A clause arrives that she did not budget.

Claire: Either is fine.

She closes her mouth. In the window light, the tips of her ears have gone red.

Riley: Please. The walking one. Just say the market. You pick, but pick that one.

— now —
date: 2026-06-12 | time: 18:07 | air: 23°C, still, holding the day's heat
place: the kitchen of the Binder Street walk-up
schedule: Friday night unchosen — packets offered
event: none
Claire: Friend | kitchen, at the counter | 0 | thought: any of the three, if I sit beside them
Riley: Friend | kitchen, by the counter | 0 | thought: the market. walking. lights. not that table
situation:
hint: