Every Thursday at nine, Anja left her building and Ognjen left his rented room in another city. His new job was supposed to last a year. They talked through headphones while she circled the stadium and he followed the canal behind the factory. She learned when the train passed and where the wind swallowed his words. He could recognize the final hill before her home from her breathing.
When she first came to visit, she expected to recognize the city by its sounds. But the station smelled of hot pastries he had never described. His room was smaller than it looked on screen. A shirt with an unfamiliar logo lay on the chair, and a plant sat at the window, a gift from a colleague whose name she did not know. Ognjen lived entire days between their conversations.
On Thursday they walked toward the canal together. He walked faster than she had imagined, while she stopped at shop windows he passed without comment during their calls. At the bridge he showed her where he had once argued with her. She did not remember an argument. She remembered searching her pocket for a lost key and giving a short answer. They both laughed, then suddenly fell silent.
Over dinner he asked whether she could picture herself there. Anja looked at the city map taped above the table. She could imagine a weekend, perhaps two weeks. She could not immediately imagine leaving a job she had only just begun to love. "I don't need an answer tonight," he said. "But we always talk as though there's only one possible decision waiting at the end." For the first time, their Thursday did not have a predetermined ending at her front door.
The next day he went to work and she explored the neighborhood alone. She bought too many cherries, got lost among identical buildings, and found a little garden open to passersby. That evening she took him there. He had not known it existed. They sat on a low wall and spat cherry stones into a paper bag, having a very awkward discussion about how long their current arrangement suited them both.
She returned home without an agreement about moving. The following Thursday he called from that garden. She heard children behind him, and he heard practice taking place at her stadium. "I'd rather sit today," he said. Anja found a bench. They did not play the same song or measure how far they had walked. As she talked about her day, she could clearly picture where he was actually sitting for the first time.