The morning after

Four hours' sleep and a nine o'clock, and I have been in a strange flat good mood all morning that I do not entirely trust. Nothing is resolved. I want to be accurate about that in here, because there is a version of last night that I could already feel myself starting to tell on the drive in — the one where we had The Conversation and now things are different. We had about a third of a conversation and both fell asleep on the couch and woke up at one with the dog on the floor looking disgusted. The roof is still eight. Caldwell is still paused. I still have not booked the appointment. He has still not said a date for anything. What is different is one thing only, and it is this: I know what he thought my silence meant. And he knows what his not-raising-it meant to me. And neither of us had that yesterday. He made coffee before he left for Hendersonville again, and put it on my side of the bed, and said we are doing the rest of this at the weekend. Not asking. Saying. I have thought about that four or five times today in gaps between clients and it holds up each time, which is not something I can say about most things I think at six in the morning.