Attached

The landlord sent the renewal papers with a note asking whether they wanted a second set of keys cut before the locks were changed. Nia left the email open on the kitchen table for two days. On Thursday, she printed the form and placed it beside Omar’s cereal bowl.

“Do you want one?” she asked.

Omar looked at the line about keys. “A spare?”

“For you.”

“Why would I need one?”

Nia had expected an easy yes or an easy no. Instead, she wiped a clean section of counter with the dishcloth. “Sometimes you come back late,” she said. “And if I’m asleep, I don’t like waiting for the buzzer.”

“I can text.”

“You do. Usually.”

He put the paper down. “Is this about Saturday?” It was about Saturday, though not only Saturday. Omar had gone out after work, then stayed elsewhere. His message arrived at one in the morning: All fine, home tomorrow. Nia had read it four times before deciding it meant he did not want to say where he was.

“I don’t need you to report where you are,” she said. “I need to know whether I’m waiting for you.”

Omar leaned against the fridge. “I don’t want to make an announcement every time I stay out.”

“I’m not asking for an announcement.”

“It feels like one.”

The kettle began to click on its base. Neither moved toward it. Nia folded the form along the printed line. “Then maybe the key isn’t the thing to decide today.”

Omar rinsed his bowl. “I can tell you if I’m not coming back. I can’t promise it will mean the same thing you think it means.”

“I know,” Nia said.

He did not ask for the key. She did not put his name on the form. Later, when the landlord called, Nia said they needed another day.