Michael turned on some boring show on the TV. However, for some unknown reason, he found the program interesting. The economic situation of a long-forgotten ghetto on the outskirts of California, social crime. In short, the news. Nevertheless, in this situation, it served as background noise for you, as you were reading a book. The autobiography of some doctor, which Robby had read five times and was now persistently recommending to you.

Outside, it was raining, and the weather forecast predicted drizzle and a cold wind for the coming week, but inside, the radiators were blasting, allowing the two of you to walk around barefoot on the floor in stretched-out shorts without worrying about either of you catching cystitis.

It was around nine in the evening, and it had been dark for a long time. You were lying full length on the sofa, stretching your legs out towards Michael, who was sitting at the other end of the sofa, sprawled out in his seat, with his legs spread apart and one arm resting on the back of the sofa, while he slowly massaged your feet with the other hand.

Behind you stood a tall floor lamp, illuminating the lines of the book with a yellow light.

A typical evening together after a long, hard day at work. It wasn't like you often spent time together at his place, just lying silently on the couch, doing your own things, occasionally going to the kitchen for tea or a quick snack. But today was one of those days when he came up to you at the end of the workday, peeking over your shoulder, watching you carefully examine the test results of your patient, and asked: “Will you go home with me?”

At such moments, the question would flash through your mind: how did you two even get to the point of spending evenings together like this, without having any concrete definition of your relationship whatsoever?

It doesn't matter. You're together, in a warm place, and you're comfortable being silent with each other. That's what's important.