Vesna always switched off the lights in the same order. First those above the magazines, then two rows by the windows, then the lamp over the table where Emil read the newspapers. She never had to tell him it was time. He would arrange the pages by number, pick up his hat, and wait while she put on her coat. They walked together to the crossroads. There, each turned in a different direction.
Three years of those evenings fitted into a single sentence when she told him she was retiring. Emil said it would be nice for her. She said she hoped so. Neither mentioned the crossroads.
During her final working week, her colleagues were preparing a cake. Vesna sorted her legacy of ordinary details: the spare cupboard key, a list of faulty sockets, instructions for the window that only closed if you first lifted it slightly. Among the papers she found Emil's library membership application. It contained a telephone number. She held the form for a few seconds, then put it back. She did not want to use his application as her personal address book.
On Thursday he arrived later than usual. Vesna showed him an invitation to the small farewell gathering. He said he could not attend because he took his brother to a regular appointment on Fridays. She knew about the brother, and about the garden Emil never managed to weed. He knew she was widowed and afraid of empty mornings. Yet asking about an ordinary Saturday coffee seemed larger than all those conversations.
"I didn't invite you just because of the cake," she said as he returned the newspaper. Emil removed his glasses. Vesna looked at them, at the loose arm he kept tightening with a fingernail. She continued, saying she would like to see him when she no longer worked there. She added no explanation about loneliness. She did not make a joke to soften what she had just said.
Emil took a piece of paper from his pocket with the address of a small seed shop. He went there on Saturdays, then had coffee in the cafe next door. He asked whether she would like to come. He wrote his number on the back, more slowly than necessary, and handed her the paper.
On her last evening at the library, they left early. The new colleague stayed to lock up. At the crossroads Vesna paused from habit, but Emil reminded her that she needed to buy a lemon for the cake. They continued along the same street. While she chose the fruit, he held her bag, and she noticed for the first time how suddenly free one of her hands felt.