When I finish bathing and come into the bedroom, he’s still awake. “Look what we get,” I say, and model one of the soft white terry-cloth robes that was hanging in the bathroom.

“It looks great.”

“Well.”

“It looks great.”

I look at him. “Thank you.”

“That’s better.”

I go over to the bed, lie down beside him. “Does your head still hurt?”

“Not bad.” He looks over at me, kisses my forehead. “Myra? I’ve been lying here just … thinking. I lived my whole life unable to make a vital connection. Not because I couldn’t; because I wouldn’t. And you know what? It’s the same for you.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly—”

“Don’t start that. Don’t tell me you haven’t had the opportunity.”

“But I haven’t.”

“I don’t think you’ve tried. I don’t think you ever have. And I want you to, Myra.”

“I am. I am now.”

“I know you are now, and I am, too, and that’s wonderful. But this isn’t going to last. I’m not going to last. But you are. And I want you to do something about the way you live, I want you to be with someone. Because you want to be. And you should be.”

“It’s not as easy as you make it sound, Chip.” I sit up, push the pillows behind me. “When you look like me—”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not!”

He sighs, turns onto his side. “Lie down. Lie down here and look at me.”

I stay sitting up, stare straight ahead.

“Please.”

“I can talk from here.”

“Myra. I want to look at you. And I don’t want to sit up.”

I lie down next to him, and he puts his hand to the side of my face, stares at me. “What, you’re not a size four ex-model? You have real hips?”

I turn away.

“Myra. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, I turn back toward him.

“It’s not your looks that keep people away. It’s you. You need to let people in. If you’d let them in, they’d see—”