Sunday Lunch With Separate Keys

For eight years after their divorce, Martin and Elise continued having Sunday lunch together. Friends called them remarkably mature. Their adult son appreciated not having to choose between them. Martin enjoyed the roast potatoes, while Elise liked having someone notice the flowers. Neither could remember when a temporary arrangement had become the week's most permanent commitment.

Then Elise enrolled in a Sunday ceramics course. She told Martin three weeks in advance, expecting him to congratulate her. Instead, he asked what they would do about lunch. She heard an accusation in the question, although he insisted that he had only meant the practical matter of buying food. They disagreed about that distinction for twenty uncomfortable minutes.

The first Sunday apart was less liberating than Elise expected. Her bowl collapsed on the wheel, and she ate a cheese sandwich beside a sink. At home, Martin cooked too many potatoes. He considered sending her a photograph of them, then recognised the complaint hidden inside the joke. He packed the extras for Monday rather than opening his phone.

They met for coffee on Thursday, carrying their separate sets of keys. Elise described the ruined bowl without pretending the course was wonderful. Martin admitted that he missed lunch, but not every part of it. They agreed to meet once a month, on whichever day suited them. Their son said this sounded complicated. For the first time, neither offered to make it simpler for him.