42. Day off
Like old men, they have their habitual creature comforts, set apart from their lives together. Roy plays chess in the park, sometimes, or by himself. When questioned, he grumbles something about practice and that elusive beast, perfection. He doesn't like sacrificing his queen, even if the move promises a victory.
Riza writes letters on white paper with dark green ink; she has lovely penmanship and rarely falls back to commenting on the weather. Also, she buys a vase of inexpensive flowers every week or so (she always, unintentionally, kills potted plants. She's not quite certain how, but it could have something to do with absent-mindedly emptying the dregs of her coffee mug over them). She keeps the flowers on her bedside table in the evenings, but moves them into the kitchen when she's not at home. She likes gerbera daisies, in bright colours. They are hardy and cheerful.
For Christmas, at the company parties (no one is alone then, good-naturedly crowded into too small a space with plenty of alcohol) they give each other practical gifts, knowing as they do everything and nothing about their respective lives.
This year, he has given her a polished leather address book, in blue. In turn, he has received a box of white handkerchiefs, the monogram stitched painstakingly by hand in scarlet thread.