Pretence

He suggests 9.30 a.m. on Monday, and I ask for a moment to check my diary. Keeping the phone to my ear, I use my other hand to open the top drawer of the tall dresser next to me. I use my index finger to press down on a folded blue jumper. I do so three times, saying, with feigned hesitance, “Right, um, that might be, actually that could work.”