“Oh, you know,” she said. “One of those cold, unsatisfied types. An aesthete.”

I was already on my feet. In the hallway, the girl was phoning, curled up on the floor, in the dark. I had to climb over her and then went on my way, sensing her eyes on my back as I groped along the wall in search of the kitchen door and the light switch. The light came on to reveal a kitchen as dazzlingly white as an operating room. The refrigerator was in a corner, a bit yellow compared with the rest of the furniture. With the flaking on its door looking like decoration, it stood there, lordly and reserved, but I wasn’t intimidated, and, after searching in the pantry for bread, I walked resolutely over to it. The door opened with a slight click.

Inside, it was full of cool air and French cheeses. Holding the door open with one knee, I ate half a Camembert without any qualms, then, using a knife, levered under the ice tray until that frozen heart of aluminum came loose with a crack so tragic as to make me fear I’d murdered not only the refrigerator but the whole kitchen. Still eating, I turned on the faucet and let hot water run on the tray until the ice broke up, then emptied the cubes into the bucket and went back to the refrigerator. The still-open door lent it a violated air. I looked in the vegetable compartment until I found a very green and velvety zucchini. I placed it on the open wound left by the ice tray and closed the door with the appropriate care. It wouldn’t be the first aesthete to have a zucchini in place of a heart, and, anyway, it was the nearest thing to a flower that I had at hand.