But when we let go of each other, he keeps his hand on my arm, just leaves it there, as if to confirm that I’m real, and I don’t pull away.

“Why did you do it?” I ask.

“What?”

“Why did you approve the ice excavation?”

He draws a breath but doesn’t reply.

“Was it so I would come?” I continue. “Was it to provoke me? So I’d come looking for you? Because you knew that I wouldn’t be able to resist?”

He hesitates.

“No, Signe, no. I wish that was why. I would like to lie and say that was why. I wish I’d had that idea. You . . . you’re capable of doing something like that. Not me.”

“But why?”

“Because . . . I’m the same person I’ve always been. Because the price of electricity has gone down. Because it was a chance to increase revenues. A chance for continued security. And it probably doesn’t make any difference when I say that I’ve stopped the excavation now. Because the damage is already done.”

“Yes. The damage is already done,” I reply. But the wind has come out of my sails.

“And it doesn’t help that I’ve stopped the excavation?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know yet.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Yes, you’re sorry, but you’re still the same person you’ve always been.”

“I guess.” He nods. “Just older.”

“Me too.”

We sit in silence for a while.

“But you’re aging well,” he says.

He startles me into a near-smile. “Was that a compliment?”

“No. A relevant piece of information.”

“Given the circumstances, I would say that it could be interpreted as a compliment.”

“So we’ll leave room for interpretation.”

“Interpretation?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Do so.”

Again we fall silent.

“I brought ice,” I say finally. “Twelve containers.”

We retrieve the ice and stack the containers outside his house.

“What should we do with it?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

He places a hand on one of them. “The containers are nice. Hard, solid plastic.”

“Petroleum,” I say.

“What?”

“They’re made of petroleum.”

“And petroleum is made of plants.”

“The plastic isn’t biodegradable.”

“It won’t break down.”

“For thousands of years.”

We leave the containers outside, beside the wall of the house. We don’t open them.

I go to check on Blue after breakfast, to take care of her. There’s always something, a mooring line that needs replacing, a fender that has slipped out of place, a boat beside her that’s too close and banging against the hull.