The clock said two. The pile said otherwise.
Final, Again
Mara wrote FINAL at the top of the page, then noticed the same word on the sheet underneath.
That one had a time beside it. Half past twelve.
She looked at the little clock near her mug.
Two.
At one, she had given herself another hour. There had been only the photograph captions, the names to check, and a paragraph she already knew how to improve.
The paragraph was better now. She thought it was. She had moved its last sentence twice and could no longer remember where she had preferred it.
Beyond the window, most of the opposite building was dark. Her lamp lit the papers so brightly that the room behind them seemed to have disappeared.
She brought the next sheet closer.
The Names Beneath
The booklet was for the neighbourhood’s old meeting hall. On Saturday, people would gather there to celebrate its reopening. The printer was expecting the pages in the morning.
Mara had collected photographs, interviewed former caretakers, and persuaded people to describe things they had insisted nobody would want to read.
One woman remembered the kitchen hatch being too high. A retired carpenter had drawn the stage before it was rebuilt. Beside his drawing, he had written the name of the man who had helped him carry the boards.
“Put him in too,” he had said. “He did the other end.”
Mara had promised.
Now she compared the pencilled name with her typed caption. The letters seemed to change whenever she looked away.
She rubbed her forehead, leaving a faint mark from the side of her finger.
The mug beside the clock was cold. She drank anyway.
One Line Twice
A note fell from between two pages when she lifted them. On it, she had written a question about the date of the summer concert.
She remembered finding the answer. It was somewhere in the folder to her left.
She opened it, found another photograph, and began checking its caption instead.
Several minutes later, the note was still beside her elbow.
Mara put the photograph down.
Across the desk lay an earlier proof. She drew it towards her and compared the paragraph she had changed. The old last sentence was clearer. She copied it back, then saw that she had already copied it once in the margin.
Her fingers tightened round the pen.
She wanted the booklet to arrive finished, without a list of things somebody still had to wait for. The printer had made space for it. The organisers had asked when they could collect the copies.
She looked at the carpenter’s drawing again.
His helper’s name would be printed beneath it for everyone to read.
Mara set the pen across the page.
The Unfinished Part
She gathered the pages she had checked into one pile. Three captions remained apart, with the concert note on top.
On the computer, she attached the booklet to a message for the printer. She began with an apology, deleted two sentences explaining how long she had worked, and wrote what was still needed.
These pages are ready for layout. Please wait for my final caption check at nine before printing.
She read the message once and sent it.
The three pages stayed beneath the lamp. Nine was only a few hours away, and she would have to telephone if the printer could not wait.
Mara rose, then noticed a word she had circled near the bottom of the top sheet.
Her hand moved towards the pen.
She left it across the page and switched off the lamp.
In the light from the window, the three sheets were still there.
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