“Hi, Henri,” I say, slowly moving closer to him and warming my hands by rubbing and blowing on them. I place my palms between his shoulder blades. Beneath my fingers I can feel his muscles and his pulse, which accelerates very slightly at my touch.

“I’m here, Henri,” I whisper as I concentrate on attuning my breathing to his—or rather to the beat set by the oxygen machine. Eight inhalations and eight exhalations per minute. I close my eyes and breathe and hope that a little of my courage, affection, and warmth is being transmitted to Henri.

Next, I take Henri’s hand and stroke it, along the sides of the fingers where the skin is particularly sensitive. “I’m here,” I whisper, thinking over and over again to myself: Courage, damn it! Please give me courage!

I wait until Fozzie has left before leaning over Henri and conducting our usual introductory ritual. Our everyday ritual. I place my iPod and the boxy wireless speaker on the table and select a playlist of songs I know Henri likes, including the tango to which I taught him to walk and hold me: “Sólo por hoy” by Carlos Libedinsky. “Only for Today.”

Back then I had short hair and never wore dresses. I danced the tango every night, with hundreds and hundreds of men. Every day, only for one day. But I stopped when Henri came along.

The music streams out into the room, bathing us in an illusion. I put my lips very close to his ear and whisper, “Hello, Henri. I’m Edwina Tomlin. Eddie. We danced together once. We spent two and a half wonderful years together. I’m here at your request . . . and my own. I’m here with you. You are Henri Malo Skinner. You’re living in a coma, and I’m begging you to wake up.”

I can smell the Chanel scent rising from between my breasts.

“I’m here,” I repeat in a whisper.

The tango washes over us. I feel like being silent, as we were the first time we faced each other and were silent all night and all the next morning. The way we gazed at each other, caressing each other softly with our eyes and our gestures. That first night only our hands touched.

The way he left. And then came back.

Henri is the personification of tango: closeness, distance, passion, tenderness, trust, estrangement. He doesn’t stay, but he always comes back. I knew it at the time, and it offers encouragement now.

He’s only in a coma for today. Only for today.