Mark appears in the doorway. He’s changed into civilian clothes, but he still moves like he’s in uniform—spine straight, steps measured. He stops when he sees me, and something crosses his face. Irritation. Maybe more.
“Porch light’s still on,” he says.
I glance toward the window.
“Oh, I can turn it off.”
“Your mother left it on again. I’ve asked her about that.”
I don’t respond. It’s not my argument to join.
He walks to the switch, flips it off with emphasis, then notices my position.
“You’re in my seat.”
I look up.
“Sorry?”
“That’s my seat. At the table.”
I assume he’s joking. I wait for the smile that would make it a joke. It doesn’t come.
“Mark, I’m just finishing a few emails. I’ll be done soon.”
“I don’t sit anywhere else.”
