ice-cold, your skin rough like it’s chapped from the winter chill.
‘He also gave me a copy of the key to your house. Your wife made copies for him and me.’ I hold it out to you.
You look at it warily.
‘I don’t have to keep the key if you don’t want me to.’
‘Why wouldn’t I want you to?’
‘I don’t know. You don’t know me. Anyway, here. You can let yourself in and keep the key if you want.’
You look at the key. ‘It’s probably better if you keep it.’
You carry on looking at me and I start to feel uncomfortable. I’m not sure what to do; you clearly have no intention of moving, so I go to your front door and open it.
‘Are you having a party?’ you ask, looking across at the parked cars.
‘Just dinner.’
I feel bad then. You’re eating from a McDonald’s bag; am I supposed to invite you in? No, we’re strangers, and you have been the enemy since I was a teenager, I can’t invite you in.
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