The woman in question stood in profile, staring at a letter that she held above what looked like a pregnant belly. You couldn’t see what was written in the letter, of course; that was for the woman’s eyes alone. But clearly it had upset her. It must have been from the baby’s father, saying that he wouldn’t marry her, or maybe a notice that the baby’s father had died. Or maybe it wasn’t a letter she had received, but a letter she was about to send. A letter to the baby’s father? To her parents? To her husband? To her lover? Leora had never thought before about how frightening it must be to be pregnant—if the woman was indeed pregnant; or was it just her dress?—to be part of something that required two parties but in the end only came down to you.

Something else bothered her about this painting, though, besides its uncertain pregnant woman. There was something about this painting—and, in fact, many of the others—that felt familiar to her, as if she were peering into a window she had peered into many times before, though she couldn’t determine where or when. As she stared at the pregnant-looking woman, the image grew more and more familiar, and she struggled to remember where she had seen these paintings last. The ones she had seen had been black and white, she remembered, not the vivid color panels in front of her now—reproductions in a sketchbook? Out of habit, she pulled out her notebook and began squinting at the painting’s label, taking notes.

Suddenly she felt the air between herself and the painting getting hotter. Someone was standing next to her. She avoided looking at the person and continued scribbling in her notebook, jamming three lines of text between each pair of ruled notebook lines. As she was about to walk away, though, she indulged in a glance over her shoulder to see who had been standing next to her.

It was a man, and as she paused before leaving, she noticed that he too looked familiar. A young man, in his late twenties or early thirties, his thick black hair close-cropped to his head with a receding hairline that actually flattered his square-shaped forehead. He wore round glasses with black frames. Leora thought perhaps she had met him at one of the drug gatherings, but something seemed American about him, a lack of pretense in his gaze. He was a little too awkward to be a pothead; too square. Then she realized who he was. He was the man who had given the last lecture, the one about Spinoza excommunicating himself. She glanced at him again to make sure it was him. But before she could turn her head away, he caught her glance and spoke.

“Excuse me, you were at the conference, right?”