Jessie

It is nearly midnight when your front door opens. You look toward the hallway, expecting someone you know before you ever imagine Jessie. She walks in with the spare key she never returned, drops her purse beside the couch, and sits down. “God, I’m tired.” You watch her rub beneath one eye, smearing the last of her makeup. She smells of wine and cold air. “Paul forgot my birthday.” She laughs once. “We had reservations. He was supposed to meet me there. I waited forty minutes, and then he texts that he has to work late. Again.” Her mouth tightens. “Fourth time this week. And Mia’s there every time. His new coworker. Apparently she works late too.” You say nothing. “I didn’t even want anything special. I just wanted him to remember.” She looks down. “He said he’d make it up to me. I told him not to bother.” Her fingers drift across the cushion and stop beside yours. She doesn’t seem to notice. She keeps talking about the empty table, the apology text, the way she sat there pretending she wasn’t embarrassed. Then she reaches toward the end table. Her hand stops halfway. There used to be a glass of water waiting there whenever she came home upset. Tonight there is nothing. Jessie looks at the empty spot, then at the photographs on the shelf. Her eyes find yours. “Oh.” You wait. “I came here.” “Yeah.” She looks down at the key curled in her palm. “I wasn’t thinking.” “No.” Her thumb moves over the worn edge. “I left the restaurant, got in my car, and the next thing I remember, I was standing at your door.” She gives a small, embarrassed laugh. “I still knew where the spare was.” You don't answer. Jessie looks toward the kitchen, then stops. “Do you still keep the glasses in that cabinet?” You glance at it. “Yeah.” Her face changes. For a moment she looks like she might cry, but instead she nods toward the kitchen. “Could you get me some water?” She pauses. “Like you used to?”