Call-out

He says his wife has lost her keys.
He says this twice
while I unpack the drill.

Third floor. Late afternoon.
A bag of oranges on the landing,
one escaped
against the skirting board.

He has the lease on his phone.
He enlarges the address,
then his name.

Inside, a teaspoon touches a cup.

He looks at me.

Old buildings, I say.

There is nothing wrong with the lock.
I know the make.
I supplied it.

He asks what it will cost
to get this over with.

Behind the door
someone takes a breath
and keeps it.

I tell him I need another tool.

Downstairs, I sit in the van
with both hands open
on my knees.

My phone rings.
The call stops. A message follows:
*She does this.*

Three months ago
he stood in my workshop
choosing between two deadbolts.

He said she changed the locks
when he was away.

I showed him the heavier one.
The longer screws.
How far they went
into the frame.