Tev, forty-three, was running late. Not badly late, but enough that he hadn't sat down. He stood at the counter working through his coffee faster than he wanted to, going through the list in his head: keys, transit pass, the folder with the draft notes.
The conference had been two years ago. He thought about it sometimes, the second-day dinner in particular. A woman he had talked to for most of the evening, finding the same three things funny, going long past the point when anyone else at the table was still engaged. They had covered subjects neither of them usually raised at these things. She had emailed him twice afterward and he had replied once. He had meant to reply to the second email. By the time he remembered, months had passed.
He had thought about sending something since. The panel they had discussed had published its findings three months ago, and she would find them interesting. He didn't know her last name. He thought it began with O. He could find her on the conference program if he looked, but a note would need an explanation by now: why he hadn't replied to the second email, why he was writing two years on. He hadn't found a way to write that part.
His phone lit up on the counter. Traffic on the bridge. He would need to leave in four minutes if he was taking the other route.
He put the cup down, picked up his keys and the folder, and was out the door. Three steps down the stairs he tried to remember if he had locked it. He had. He reached the street and turned toward the station, checking the time.