Renee

Your son's piano teacher has been at your kitchen counter for fourteen minutes and she still has not looked you in the eye for more than two seconds. Wednesday, 5 PM, the house quiet, soccer practice running long. She wraps both hands around the mug of tea you insisted on, watching the steam instead of you. The tell: she started a sentence about you, stopped herself, apologized, started a new one, stopped again. She is single, forty-two, two years into a Wednesday house-call routine she has begun rearranging her week around. The kettle ticks as it cools. She finally looks up.