“Hey yourself.”

My throat felt dry and chalky. I took a sip from my thermos and the coffee in it was so hot it scalded my mouth.

Silence swirled like smoke in the space between us, and I knew it was up to me to diffuse it.

“How are things?” I said stupidly.

She had been biting on the end of her pencil, but she took it out of her mouth and twirled it around in her fingers like a little baton. “Things are good.”

I cocked my head to the side, to get a better look at what she was drawing. “What are you working on?”

“Nothing.” She shut the sketchbook and set the pencil on top of it. “I’m literally not working on anything.”

“It looks like you’re drawing.”

“Doodling.” She wiped eraser crumbs from the table, and when she spoke again there was a restrained tone to her voice. “I was pretty worn out after Sorrow. I’m taking a few months off to recharge.”

I couldn’t imagine October not working for that long, and I said, “What are you going to do all day? If you’re not working, I mean?”

“We’ll see,” she said. “I’ve been traveling a lot. After the exhibit ended, I rented a cabin in Joshua Tree for a couple weeks. And I went to Rochester for Thanksgiving. I guess now I’ll just be doodling and drinking coffee.”

That explained why I couldn’t find her in town. She hadn’t been there.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Joshua Tree,” I said. I thought better of asking the next question, but I asked it anyway. “Did you go by yourself?”

She made a face indicating that was none of my business. Nevertheless, she said, “No.” There was a pause, and I was certain it was for effect. “I drove down with Diego. And I didn’t talk to a single human for ten days. It was a dream.”

“I’ll bet.”

She stretched out her legs and set her bare feet on the floor. Then she picked up her cup and held it in her palm. It was almost empty, and she stared into it as if it were full of secrets. She pulled her legs back up underneath her. Put the cup down. Ran her nail across a scratch in the table. Looked around the cafe. She seemed nervous too.

I looked at the book in my hand and thought of something I’d just read. “Did you know that alpacas can die of loneliness?”

She digested that fact and laughed. And it was a genuine October laugh. The one that used to be followed by her telling me I was funny or cute.

“Good thing you’re not an alpaca,” she said.

I laughed too, though there was something tragic about the joke, something that hurt my heart. And when I met October’s eyes, I recognized the same nostalgic sentiment there, a desire to make all the tacit conversations explicit.

“Did you get the envelope I sent you?”