I made the coffee, but I had forgotten that I’d run out of milk. Sweetening the coffee carcinogenically and apologizing for the lack of cream, I presented the bitter Sumatran brew to him.

He sipped it thoughtfully while I surreptitiously checked my cell phone for a reply from Heather… Nothing so far.
I leaned in and read the addresses of the mail he had brought with him. It was not his mail and the collection seemed to an issue of Popular Mechanics and a couple of letters.

“What’s up with that stuff?”

“Oh, this?” he answered, drawing the little pile closer to himself protectively, “I just haven’t figured out what to do with it yet.”

I wondered if the pile of mail was somehow a source of stress to him, and offered to take a look at it.
In answer, he clutched the papers in his hand and stood up.

“Nah,” he said, dumping the remainder of the coffee into my kitchen sink, “its something I have to take care of myself.”

Although I then assured him that I was only idly interested in the mail, it seemed I’d agitated him with my offer of assistance. Shortly thereafter he excused himself and left my home.

Seconds after watching his car pull away I finally received a text from my wife with his wife’s phone number.