The New House – Part 2: A Chair for Two

The furniture came in the third week, from a second-hand shop on Elizabeth Street. A battered armchair in faded green velvet, a wooden table with one short leg, and a bookshelf that Dylan spent an entire Sunday sanding.

"It's ugly," said Megan, sitting in the armchair with her feet tucked under her.

"It's ours," said Dylan, from the floor, where he was screwing the last bracket into place. "That's better than pretty."

"You're a romantic."

"I'm a carpenter who's been waiting nine years for you to sit still long enough for me to make you something."

She laughed, and the sound filled the living room, and the room felt, for the first time, like it belonged to them.

Megan had started a new course in landscape design at the TAFE in Sandy Bay. Dylan had taken the job in Devonport, and came home late some nights, tired and sunburnt from the building sites. They were both learning how to be busy without becoming strangers.

On Saturday mornings they walked down to the river together, coffee in hand, talking about plants and houses and the friends they had lost touch with. They started asking each other one question a day, written on a scrap of paper and tucked into the kitchen drawer.

What made you laugh this week? Megan asked one morning.

You, mispronouncing a Dutch word at the hardware shop, Dylan wrote back.

What do you miss about Launceston?

Nothing, Dylan wrote. Except the cat who lived under the porch.

That night, after the garden bench was finally finished, they sat on it under the apple tree with a bottle of cheap sparkling wine and watched the stars.

"I've been thinking about us," said Megan.

"Good thoughts?"

"Mostly. Some scary ones." She turned the glass in her hands. "I miss being touched without it being a prelude to something. Just a hand on the back of my neck while you're reading. Or your shoulder against mine on the couch."

Dylan's face softened. "I didn't know you missed that."

"I didn't either, until we moved."

"Can I touch you now?" he asked. "Just the neck. And nothing else, unless you want it."

"Yes," said Megan. "Please."

He moved closer on the bench and rested his hand on the back of her neck, warm and steady, his thumb drawing slow circles just under her hairline. She closed her eyes and let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.

"Still green?" he murmured.

"Green," she said. "So green."

"Good," said Dylan, and when she turned her face towards his, he kissed her, slow and unhurried, while the apple blossoms drifted down around them like soft snow.

When they went inside, the chair was waiting by the window, and the mattress on the floor had two pillows now, and a blanket they'd bought from the op shop. They didn't need to say anything. They lay down together, talking softly about nothing at all, and fell asleep in each other's arms in the house they had built themselves.