The small shop window said I would return in fifteen minutes. I had not written a reason. Emir waited around the corner with two coffees and his coat fastened to the wrong button. He had half an hour before his sister returned to work and he took over caring for their father. I was waiting for the woman who visited my mother several afternoons a week. Between our responsibilities a gap sometimes opened wide enough for a short walk.
We had met in a queue for household supplies, both holding the same large package of tissues. Our first messages were practical, then funny, then increasingly tender. Yet dates failed more often than they happened. Once I cried over a cooked dinner nobody would eat because his sister had to stay at work longer. Emir then offered to abandon all future plans so he would no longer disappoint me.
I told him not to protect me by disappearing. Then I had to admit that I sometimes imagined his visits as rescue from my own day. I wanted not only him but someone who would take the phone, carry bags, and know what came next. That was not a fair proposition for a new relationship. Emir laughed without amusement and said he too sometimes dreamed of a woman who would bring his life another pair of hands.
We stopped pretending a completely free weekend would soon arrive. We arranged short meetings and allowed disappointment when they failed, without accusations that the other did not care. I did not take over caring for his father, and he did not become my unpaid courier. We helped when possible and asked before promising. Once we even managed the cinema, although both fell asleep before the ending.
That day behind the shop, the coffee was too hot for the time available. Emir noticed his wrong button only when I moved closer. I wanted to fix it, then gave up and kissed him. He laughed, spilled some coffee on his sleeve, and said his father would again think he was rushing for no reason. We stood there briefly, neither especially young nor carefree, but sufficiently in love for the street to look different.
I returned to the shop two minutes late. A customer waiting outside asked whether everything was all right. I said it was. That evening I sent Emir a photograph of a new sign with a more precise return time. He replied that he would try to make it. He promised no more. I put away the phone and opened my mother's balcony door, carrying into the ordinary remainder of the day something that was neither duty nor escape.