The sink was full from the night before. She did the last of it herself and dried the last plate, and set it in the box, and the box was already taped at the bottom.
"Top shelf. Behind the good glasses. The coffee."
He reached without looking. His hand went to the second shelf. The bag was there, where she'd moved it weeks ago. He took it down and set it back on the second shelf. She watched him do it. Neither of them said anything about the top shelf.
The grocery list was still in her hand: Coffee, checked, a Tuesday at the top. She folded it, then left it in the coat on the chair, the one she wasn't taking.
At the hall switch she stopped.
"The porch light's on a timer."
"If the light goes, the bulbs are behind the coffee."
He slid the box out from behind the coffee. New bulbs, most of them gone. He put the lid back and pushed it in behind the coffee again.
"The key's where it's always been."
He checked the hook anyway. Nothing on it. He put his hands in his pockets.
At the front door her hand went for the porch switch, the way it did every night, and came back down. She didn't look at him.
"Don't wait up."
"Lock it behind me."
She was already on the landing when she said it. He stood with his hand on the bolt.
"It sticks. Lift it."
"Go on. Try it."
He lifted it. It came clean on the first try.
She watched the door, not him.
He pulled it to. It caught.
She went down. When her steps reached the bottom he pushed the door, and it went, and he said it out loud, alone at the door:
"Bottom latch sticks. Push."
He checked the latch. He checked it again.
The next morning he made the coffee the way she made it. It didn't come out right.
"Still no good."