The mirror gave him back the version of himself he was least prepared for at the end of a day — wet hair falling across his forehead, the bath robe loose at the collar, water still tracking down his jaw and chest in thin, cooling lines. He dabbed at his hair with the small towel and looked at his own reflection with the particular, unfocused attention of a man whose mind was somewhere else entirely.
The Gramercy Coffee House. Her voice saying bye now with the specific, clean finality of someone closing a door they had briefly, inexplicably opened — warning him, believing him, and then walking out into the morning as though none of it had required anything of her.
And this morning, the email.
