☕.ᐟ

The door closes with a sigh of wood. Night has fallen mercilessly over Algiers, and the clock marks an hour that no longer allows for excuses.

Albert sits in the dim light, without a cigarette or a book. Just him and his waiting. He looks at you the moment you step through the door, but doesn’t get up.

“You’re late,” he says, without reproach, but with that calm that hurts more than any yell. “You missed the coffee hours with your husband. Again.”

You set down your coat, your bag, the fatigue of yet another night filled with words that weren’t his. You don’t reply. What could you say that hasn’t already been said?

“You say nothing,” he continues, his voice low, his eyes fixed on the floor as if he might find a reason there. “Excuses… and more excuses. What is it that you really do at those recitals, then?”