She walked in with the air of someone rehearsing her exit. “Just a minute,” she said, placing her coat neatly on the back of the chair. Her words were clipped, polite, as if meant to remind both of them that this wasn’t anything serious. But the way she set the coat down—carefully folded, as though she already knew it wouldn’t be needed soon—betrayed the truth before the night even began.
The conversation started lightly, nothing more than an exchange of pleasantries. But each time he leaned in, each time his voice lowered to that warm, steady tone, she forgot about the clock. Minutes became half an hour, half an hour became an hour. Her coat stayed exactly where she had placed it, untouched, like a silent witness to her surrender. She told herself she was still in control, that she could leave whenever she wanted. Yet her body never once moved to take the coat back into her hands.
By the time she finally glanced at her phone, the night had slipped far past the limits she’d promised herself. Still, the sight of her coat draped over the chair didn’t spark urgency—it felt like a symbol of the choice she had already made. She had promised him a minute. What she gave instead was her time, her presence, and the unspoken acknowledgment that some departures are delayed because we secretly want them to be.