She was sitting at the kitchen table reading a novel and drinking tea, her usual routine before she went upstairs and began work. Dapo slipped the seed into his pocket and closed the French doors. He made his own cup of lemon and ginger then stood by the sink, sipping from the mug, enjoying the silence of the day. Iye wasn’t there. He spent the weekend with his grandparents, Misra’s father and mother, who brought him home after nursery on Monday afternoons. The house felt anticipatory without him, the air pregnant with the unknown moment that birthed his arrival, that welcome burst of sound and blurred action.

He appreciated the time Misra’s parents afforded them. Time to work on individual projects, whatever they might be. Time to make love, or talk over steaming mugs, time to make time for themselves. Many of their fellow parents, their friends, family and neighbours didn’t have the luxury of in-laws to take the strain of raising a child. In the old days they would have all lived together in some dusty compound surrounded by hordes of family, intimate or distant, or at least in the same village, at worst in the same town separated by scant miles. Now, there were only Misra’s parents nearby, as Dapo’s had returned to Nigeria many years ago. It was difficult to assess if they were better off or otherwise in this new millennial age of globalisation, of families located anywhere they could afford, of betterment.

‘What are you thinking?’ she said from the kitchen table, putting down the book. It was a slim volume, not a novel at all he realised: What Women Want.

‘Nothing useful,’ he said. ‘Hey, look at what I found in the garden.’

He took the seed from the pocket. She turned it between her fingers like he had before, a faint smile on her lips.

‘Where’d you get this?’

‘The garden. There’s tons. Come and have a look.’

She gave it back and followed him, bending for various seeds of her own, examining each closely, holding them high against the light. Thin cloud had returned above, whiter, more expansive. The sun was a shining coin hidden behind muslin. Their pear tree rustled and shook in the breeze. Dapo watched her search the grass, telling himself he was focused on her response to the purple orbs, but after a while he admitted he liked to watch her move. Misra’s body was tiny, wide, curved like the seed. He laughed, admonishing himself.

‘What d’you think?’ he croaked, throat dry. Tea did that to him sometimes.

‘They’re beautiful. Like little jewels.’

‘They are.’

‘Where d’you think they come from?’

‘The trees, I think. They’ve got new branches.’

He pointed in the direction of the pear tree. Misra walked along the central garden path and stood beneath the tree. He joined her. She smelt of sandalwood, the joss sticks she’d burned that morning.