Tea at Number Six

Since Ana had moved into number nine, opposite Tom’s house at number six, their conversations had consisted mainly of friendly greetings across the street. On Friday, she handed him a card inviting him for tea on Sunday at four. Tom accepted at once, pleased that what had so far been a polite acquaintance might develop into something less formal.

The following morning, it occurred to him that someone who had only just moved in might appreciate being invited rather than having to entertain. Without checking whether Ana wanted to change the arrangement, he put a note through her door suggesting tea at number six instead. Ana was out; on returning, she put her bag beside the door, covering the note without seeing it.

By four on Sunday, Tom had baked a cake, laid the table for two and checked the clock more often than necessary. Ana’s failure to arrive made him wonder whether his invitation had sounded unwelcome or inconvenient. He considered going across, then decided that knocking might put her under pressure. A small gap in communication was beginning to acquire explanations that neither neighbour had intended.

When he finally stepped outside, Ana was at her window, cup in hand, looking just as uncertain as he felt. “I have a cake!” he called. “So have I!” she replied. Their laughter came before the full explanation. The sight of two people waiting in two separate houses made a much simpler account of the afternoon than any of the motives they had been imagining.

Ana carried her cake over to number six, where the missing note was soon accounted for: it had been hidden under her bag. Tom’s attempt to be considerate had changed a plan that Ana still believed they shared. Before she left, they agreed explicitly on tea at number nine the next Sunday. Tom entered it on his calendar and read it back. There would be two cakes again if they wanted, but this time only one meeting place.