The Note

The note was under the saucer, folded twice, in handwriting that leaned hard to the right like it was in a hurry to get somewhere.

I read it in the doorway. I read it again on the bus. By the third reading I had stopped taking in the words and was just looking at the shape of them, the way you do with a photograph of someone who has gone.

It said: I am not going to be here on Thursday, and I wanted that to be a sentence you read rather than a chair you looked at.