and see that it’s only 6:30. I’m too restless to get back into bed. I walk into the kitchenette in search of coffee. All the counters and the stove are covered with stacks of dishes, magazines, and other reading material. There’s even a sock in the sink. I realize that Henry must have simply heaved everything into the kitchen last night, regardless. I always had this idea that Henry was very tidy. Now it becomes clear that he’s one of those people who is fastidious about his personal appearance but secretly slovenly about everything else. I find coffee in the fridge, and find the coffee maker, and start the coffee. While I wait for it to brew, I peruse Henry’s bookshelves.

　Here is the Henry I know. Donne’s Elegies and Songs and Sonnets. Doctor Faustus, by Christopher Marlowe. Naked Lunch. Anne Bradstreet, Immanuel Kant. Barthes, Foucault, Derrida. Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience. Winnie the Pooh. The Annotated Alice. Heidegger. Rilke. Tristram Shandy. Wisconsin Death Trip. Aristotle. Bishop Berkeley. Andrew Marvell. Hypothermia, Frostbite and Other Cold Injuries.

　The bed squeaks and I jump. Henry is sitting up, squinting at me in the morning light. He’s so young, so before—. He doesn’t know me, yet. I have a sudden fear that he’s forgotten who I am.

　“You look cold” he says. “Come back to bed, Clare.”

　“I made coffee,” I offer.

　“Mmm, I can smell it. But first come and say good morning.”

　I climb into bed still wearing his bathrobe. As he slides his hand under it he stops for just a moment, and I see that he has made the connection, and is mentally reviewing his bathroom vis-a-vis me.

　“Does it bother you?” he asks.

　I hesitate.

　“Yes, it does. It does bother you. Of course.” Henry sits up, and I do, too. He turns his head toward me, looks at me. “It was almost over, anyway.”

　“Almost?”

　“I was about to break up with her. It’s just bad timing. Or good timing, I don’t know.” He’s trying to read my face, for what? Forgiveness? It’s not his fault. How could he know? “We’ve sort of been torturing each other for a long time—” He’s talking faster and faster and then he stops. “Do you want to know?” No.

　“Thank you.” Henry passes his hands over his face.