Wilson and Ruth still have their alarm clock set for 6:45, which is when they used to get up to get Isabelle to school on time. They could sleep later, now, at least by half an hour, but they stick to the habit of routine. They wake to classical music and the cold; Ruth likes to sleep with the window open wide, even in winter.

“Jesus,” Wilson says, getting immediately out of bed. He pulls on his robe and steps into his slippers. “I can almost see my breath in here.” He shivers and crosses the room to shut the window, glad that the dog is not here this morning to be walked. Ruth switches on her bedside lamp and reaches for her glasses. She props the pillows behind her and yawns.

“Winter has arrived,” she says, in some form of agreement with her husband.

Wilson rubs his hands together and goes out into the hall. He retrieves the paper from where it’s been delivered by the doorman at their front door and goes into the kitchen to pour the coffee that’s already waiting, hot and fresh. This coffee machine is new and has an automatic timer. Wilson’s ordered a milk frother, too, but that hasn’t yet arrived. He loves gadgets—kitchen gadgets, camera gadgets, TV gadgets, car gadgets—and lately he’s begun to simply buy them for himself. He used to present them to Ruth for Christmas or her birthday—a knife set, a paper towel dispenser, a bagel slicer, a banana hanger—but she found these gifts insulting, “gifts for himself in disguise,” she called them. But they’ve come in handy, Wilson thinks, lumping sugar into their steaming mugs. They don’t have to wait for coffee to brew in the morning anymore. He’s able to take a single paper towel neatly from the roll instead of two or three to wipe up the coffee he spills on the counter, and right now, he notes, there is a bunch of bananas ripening on its hanger.

He takes the coffees and the paper back to their bedroom.

“Thanks,” Ruth says, taking her coffee. He gets back into his own side of the bed and opens the paper.

“What section do you want?” he asks.

“Metro,” Ruth says. “You can start with the front. I’ll read it later.”

Wilson hands her the metro section, and they both disappear behind their walls of paper. Wilson has balanced his coffee mug on his chest; instead of reading he watches the steam from the coffee’s surface curl between him and the words on the page. The bottom of the mug is hot, but it feels good.

He hears Ruth set her paper down. “Wil.”

Wilson wraps a hand around the mug to steady it and takes a breath. He clears his throat. “Yuh,” he says, not lowering his own paper.