She reads some passages of one of Mr. Keller’s first books. She’s shocked by the way he describes women, how weak-willed and despondent a female protagonist is, so different from his own wife. He always writes how she purses her lips just so. Annie studies the movements he writes about, the way the heroine’s hand flutters to her throat when she’s distressed, how when she dreams of her husband, he’s always listening to The Clash or Elvis Costello, head tilted back, eyes wide and unblinking.

She asks Mr. Keller, while he’s making his morning coffee, “What inspired Ariadne Maplethorpe?” A splash of milk ends up on the countertop instead of in his mug. “She’s just so...different from Mrs. Keller.”

“I didn’t know you’d read any of my books, Annie.” She gives him a rag to wipe up the milk.

“I’m starting to. It’s strange to live in the house with such an esteemed author and not know the full extent of his work.” He moves the spilled milk around with the cloth, the cotton barely absorbing it.

“Well, to answer your question, she was a character I came up with in college. I’m a little embarrassed by her now.” He leaves the wet rag on the countertop, sips his coffee. “She’s kind of a teenage boy’s fantasy of a woman, you know? Of course, that helped the series sell. Actually, by book four, I wanted to kill her off, but my publisher wouldn’t let me. I’d just gotten so tired of writing like that. Belle helped, of course. She told me on our third date that Ari was a trash character, that Ari should be more like her, brash and bold.” He takes a paper towel and sops up the rest of the milk and leaves the kitchen, seemingly back in his own head, without letting Annie respond.

She would have said, Poor Mrs. Keller. What a shame that her days of being brash and bold have come to an end. For who would describe her now, this slip of a woman, as a commanding presence? She has become a shadow of herself, and soon even the shadow will be diminished, the sun and its angles aligning against her.

29

When I wake up, the light in the apartment has dimmed, gray washing in through the windows. I don’t feel well-rested. My throat’s dry and my lips are chapped, my legs cramped from bending them to fit on the sofa. I could sleep for another five hours, ten. Somehow the nap has made me more tired, but I know I should leave before Anneliese comes back. After our conversation, I don’t feel comfortable inviting myself to dinner.