Božo moved the cup before Hana had sat down. He said that was where the bread usually went. She moved it to the other side, and he reached for the knife she had laid on the wrong board. After the third small correction, Hana remained standing. It was their first breakfast in his apartment. They had been seeing each other around town for six months, but the kitchen had rules she had not encountered on their walks.
Božo's wife had died five years earlier. Hana knew that and had never tried to hurry his grief. She knew the name of the woman in the hallway photograph and enjoyed funny stories about their travels. That morning, however, she was not sitting with a memory but with a man correcting every movement as if she were taking a test for a position that would never become available. She asked whether she could at least choose what to drink her coffee from.
Startled, Božo retreated to the window. He had not meant to compare two women, or so he told himself. The kitchen was the last place where he still knew everything by heart: arrangement, quantities, morning sentences. Hana took bread and made toast a little darker than he liked. She said she would not be offended if he made another piece for himself. That simple suggestion revealed how stubbornly he had been trying to produce one correct breakfast.
She sat in the chair beside the window, previously unused because of a draft. Božo began to warn her, then stopped. She noticed the cold air, fetched a cushion, and stayed. They ate with cautious conversation. Finally he admitted that new moments sometimes made him feel like a guest in his own life. Hana said she felt the same in his kitchen, except that at least he knew the arrangement of the cupboards.
They did not remove photographs or buy a new dinner service. Next time Božo came to her home. There the coffee was too weak for him, and the bread excellent. He said both without turning his comments into a judgment. Hana laughed and showed him where she kept extra coffee. Afterward they prepared breakfast together in two different ways, sometimes spoiling it by talking too long beside the stove.
Months later Božo bought a second small baking tray for toast in his kitchen. He did not discard the old one. One Sunday Hana put the bread where the cup had stood before and looked at him. They both laughed, not at the past but at ordinary objects' insistence on determining a life. He opened the now repaired window and asked whether she wanted more coffee before they went for a walk.