One night she took Leonard to the free night at the art museum. The lobby of the contemporary wing was a mess, DJs playing terrible music, people waiting in long lines for … chips? Beer? Deeper inside there was a whole mini-exhibition dedicated to “stillness,” to the notion of quiet contemplation as an important element in the life of the mind. She and Leonard were the only people there. There was tinkling piano music that turned out to be by John Cage, and, for some reason, a little room with blood-red walls hidden inside the gallery sheltering a mannerist painting of Christ coming down from the cross. Jesus filled most of the picture, his head poking out into the upper frame, his torso dominating the center of the painting. It certainly wasn’t about stillness, and one of her least favorite things about paintings made before around 1800 was their insistence on depicting this particular execution with such grim relentlessness. But there was also a curly-headed angel in what looked to be a tie-dyed leotard, and he held a magnificently carved staff that was not un-phallic in nature.

“Well, I can get down with that angel,” Cassie said.

“He’s like, ‘Oh hey, I was just wandering by,’” Leonard said.

“‘Just saw somebody with an easel painting a dead guy and thought, well, shoot, I’m wearing my good outfit. Always wanted my picture done.’”

“Is it sacrilegious to make fun of angels?” Leonard said. “I feel that they’re not, like, essential personnel.”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine,” Cassie said. “They can’t hear or talk.”

“I didn’t realize you were such a theologian.”

“Oh yeah, it’s harder to tell when I’m not wearing my … what, vestments? I’m trying to say ‘robes,’ but funnier.”

These okay times they had, the banter and the looking and the judging, were enough to hold off the worst of it for a half hour or so. After that, more stimulation would be needed. It was exhausting, seeking the next thing. But she still knew all too well what was at the bottom of the pool. Maybe Leonard could teach her about watches? (How did one pronounce TAG Heuer?) She couldn’t imagine caring about them as status symbols or even aesthetic objects, though she had become, she realized, pretty interested in time. She doubted that this was the point of engagement for him, but she liked the idea that they might share an enjoyment in the same thing for different reasons. He could pick the model and see to its maintenance. She—she would count the minutes.

At work, on a Friday, Eleanor finally called Cassie into her office.

“I know people have been talking, so you might have already heard something,” she said.

“Oh,” Cassie said. “I don’t think so?”