The driver walked her to her door.
He was discreet about it—didn't make a production of the assistance, simply positioned himself at her side with the practiced efficiency of someone who had been instructed to make sure she got inside safely and was executing that instruction without commentary. She was grateful for the absence of commentary.
At the door she said: "Thank you. I'll take it from here."
"Goodnight, ma'am."
She heard his footsteps retreat down the path as she pushed the door open and stepped inside. She shut it behind her. The lock clicked. The apartment settled around her in its familiar quiet—the specific quiet of a space that had been empty all evening and was readjusting to her presence.
She limped into the living room.
