My cousin wanted lunch.

My cousin was in Toronto for one afternoon. I responded by making a list long enough for a person moving here permanently.

There was a museum, a walk, several places to eat and an outing I thought she would enjoy. The travel between them occupied suspiciously little space on the page.

When she arrived, I asked what she wanted to do first. She said lunch. I explained that lunch was scheduled after the walk. She looked at me with the patience usually reserved for a child holding a complicated drawing.

We chose one thing to go out for.

Over soup at my table, we talked about the options. She chose the bathhouse afternoon. She wanted to sit somewhere warm and have time afterwards for tea, provided I did not treat the tea as a refuelling stop before the museum. I crossed out the museum.

We checked the session details and what she would need to bring. I stopped describing everything she would miss. She had come to see me, not complete an inventory of Toronto.

The rest of the list stayed on the table. It was surprisingly difficult to leave it there.

There was time to hear the long version.

On the journey, she told me about moving flats. I already knew the short version from messages. The long version involved a sofa that would not turn a corner and a neighbour who arrived with extremely confident measurements.

After changing at the bathhouse, we sat over tea while she finished the sofa story. The neighbour's measurements had been correct; the sofa had simply acquired feet he had forgotten to count. I looked at the time once. We still had room to get home and collect her bag before she left.

I gave her the remaining bread from lunch for the journey. It was wrapped less impressively than any souvenir I had considered buying.

Later she messaged to say she had had a lovely day. I looked at the abandoned list, then put it in a drawer. There were plenty of ideas left for another visit. For once, that felt useful rather than unfinished.