Paper boat on upper chest

She came to the dance that Saturday with a sheet of the Chronicle folded in her apron pocket. Her Fred had gone out on the Ellen Rose in March and not come home, and the town had stopped asking how she did. Folding was the only thing her hands knew how to do with the waiting. So she made a little boat from the shipping column, creased each fold flat with her thumbnail, and set it on the water trough by the back door where the rain ran off the gutter.

Jem Tolley, a stoker's boy with no manners, came out for a smoke and saw the boat tip off the trough and go bobbing down the lane. He chased it past the chip shop and the Methodist hall, and it stayed upright the whole way, as if it knew where it was going. At the harbour steps it caught in the weed. He lifted it out and found the creases still sharp, the print still legible. He didn't tell her he'd read it. He carried it back and pressed it into her palm.

Hettie said nothing. She put the boat on the windowsill, went back inside, and asked the bandleader for a slow one. Then she danced, alone, on those soft boards, and the whole hall stood back to watch her take the floor. Mind you, that's the only version I trust, because I was the one who swept up after.