“Yours,” I said. “Mine’s a dump.”

She said she didn’t mind. I said I did.

Alex’s apartment was a third-floor walk-up in an old building not far from San Lorenzo, nice but not too nice, and I was glad. She gave me a tour of the living room, pointing out beautiful blue floor tiles in the kitchen and the little balcony with its wrought-iron railing. We went out on it for a few minutes to take in the view, the Duomo lit up against the dark sky, and I pulled her close. She surprised me with a kiss that felt urgent, almost desperate, and we stayed like that, hardly separating, Alex leading me to her bedroom.

The lovemaking felt urgent too. I kept trying to slow it down but couldn’t, and it was over too soon. Afterward, we lay on her bed, not speaking. She got up to get a glass of wine, and I watched her walk away, afraid she might break into a run.

On the bedside table was a small framed photo of a young girl, obviously Alex, and her mother, whom I recognized from the locket.

“Nice picture of you and your mom,” I said when she came back.

She nodded, half smiled. I could see she was struggling with something and asked.

“My mother’s…not well. I’m mean, she’s okay but…” She broke off, shook her head. “It’s just… Never mind.”

I told her it was okay, that she didn’t have to talk about it.

After a while, she said, “I want to,” took a swallow of wine, the glass shivering in her hand, then spoke quickly as if she needed to say it fast or she never would.

“She was always fragile, but wonderful and kind. At first, the doctors didn’t know what was going on, depression or anxiety? Then they hit on a diagnosis—early onset dementia. The thing is she’s not going to get better, only worse.”

“I’m sorry. What about your father?”

“He’s…out of the picture, divorced. I thought I told you.” She expelled a short breath. “She’s in a good place now. It’s expensive, but there’s no choice. She’s only fifty-six—and it’s bad…always worse. For a while, I tried to take care of her myself, moved her into my apartment, but even with an aide, it was too much. She was up half the night crying or confused—and me up with her, trying to comfort her, then slogging through the next day on no sleep.” There were tears in her eyes.

I got my arm around her but didn’t say anything, let her keep talking.

“It was after the second suicide attempt—the first with pills, the second with a razor blade…” Alex took a sharp breath, practically a gasp. “The doctors suggested it would be better if she were someplace where she could be watched. It’s just…” Another deep breath. “I’m sorry…”

“There’s no reason to be.”

She swiped a tissue off the side table and dabbed at her eyes. “But I am. Why am I burdening you with this?”