The Spare Room: What the Quiet Week Held - by Cassandra Mile

The sweater rides up when she reaches for the lighter. Brenda feels the cold on the strip of skin above her waistband and straightens too fast, arms already crossing to hold the softness in. Jason’s knuckle brushes the back of her hand over the pumpkin. The contact lasts less than a second. Heat flashes up her arm and settles low, unwanted and precise. She laughs once, short, and goes inside to run the faucet while he finishes the carving alone. The house is quiet with Mark gone. Jason came for the gutter and the step. Ordinary repairs. Ordinary meals. She tells herself the spare room stays spare, that mornings can still be buttoned shirts and coffee and nothing spoken. Each night the distance shrinks anyway. A thigh against an arm on the couch. A wrist held too long at the sink. The door that clicks most of the way shut. Refusal costs more than staying.