My husband has returned. A traveller whose flight was cancelled has found his way home. He slowly unpacks while I make space for the unexpected.

The house is full of him. I find him everywhere. He hovers in the kitchen and takes over the knives. He lifts paper to the window’s light and slices it with the sharpest blade.

I keep saying wash your hands, this virus is deadly. We wait from a distance for the world to return.

He cuts the tender loins and offers a slowly cooked dinner. I look for a tablecloth. We talk and take time to hear how each other’s sentences end.

The sky is empty of temptation. In the corner, the suitcase still lurks with a broken zip and an old address. An invitation. If we had a choice where would we rather be?