He said Friday.
He comes Thursday.
I know because at 6:47 PM my studio buzzer goes off and I’m still
in my work clothes with mood boards spread across every surface and
a pencil tucked behind my ear that I completely forgot about, and
when I open the door Adrian Knight is standing there in his travel
coat looking slightly rumpled in a way he never allows himself to
look in public.
He’s also holding a book.
Not flowers. Not wine. A book.
Large. Hardcover. Wrapped in brown paper with a small card tucked
under the string.
“You’re early,” I say.
“Thursday evening,” he says. “I said Thursday evening.”
“You said Friday.”
“I said I’d see you Friday. I came Thursday evening.” He holds out
the book. “There’s a difference.”
I take it. It’s heavy. I look at the card.
It says: You me
