Ghazi didn’t know how to make his face look. She was easily half gone. She looked so much older. The breasts—small. That face like cream. But with the pounds missing she looked less inviting. At least the coppery blond hair was there. She had it in a ponytail down her back. He wanted to touch it to make sure it was her.

“Where is everyone?” he asked instead.

She said, “Hold on,” and took his coat and disappeared down the back hall. He looked around. The place was clean. He had never seen it so clean. No sleeping bags on the floor. The Three were obviously elsewhere. Rafik’s Tour de France posters were gone. No Madonna on the wall either. It smelled good too, like Heather was baking apples.

“Sit down,” she said, her face still wet from crying. She wiped off her chin with the sleeve of her shirt. “I have a six-pack in the fridge.”

“Good. Good. Thank you.”

He was feeling formal. Very formal. He sat on the sofa. His Guccis were too tight. He looked at the boots. Way too long. Suddenly, he couldn’t sit there like that. “Heather,” he yelled, “I’ll be right in, I gotta wash up.”

“Sure,” she said. Her voice was the same. The kind of whiny thing she always had.

“I put your stuff in the guest room.”

Guest room. Fuck. Where was everyone? Did Heather live here alone?

The room was done up in yellow. He looked at a framed poster over the bed.

One Day at a Time

Help me believe in what I could be
and all that I am.
Show me the stairway I have to climb.
Lord, for my sake teach me to take
one day at a time.

This was written over ferns, daisies, and a misty green lake. What went on here? Had Heather gone holy? He closed the door, opened his suitcase, and pulled out old jeans. He left the boots in the closet.

When he padded into the living room, Heather was sitting on the sofa, drinking a glass of wine. He couldn’t believe it. Heather never drank. So maybe she hadn’t gone the way of angels. His beer was there. Sam Adams, his favorite.

“I kept that in there. Waiting for you. I never would let it not be there.” She was crying again.

He took a long swallow. Then two others. The bottle was empty.

“I’ll get another,” she said, getting up.

He caught her wrist as she went by. He looked up at her, really looked. She looked gorgeous with wet eyes. Did he look as different to her as she did to him?

She read his thoughts. “I know I look different.”

“Come here.”

He tugged some on her wrist and took her other hand. She was a swan. She had been a walrus.