Phyllis entered and closed the door. She spotted the cut-throats, selected one, deftly sharpened it on the leather strop hanging from the door, and eased the razor through a curl of her hair. She took her lighter from her bag and set fire to it. Then she blew out the flame and, while the strand was still smoking, held the burning hair under Zeno’s nose. The acrid fumes acted like smelling salts. He coughed a bit as she guided him to the Victorian fender and sat him down. He closed his eyes and placed his palms over them.

Phyllis studied him afresh. She put him in his mid-forties—yet there was a boyishness about him that he would probably carry with him all his life. He looked well cared-for, as though loved by a good woman. But then, this type of man would look clean even if he’d been shovelling coal-dust. His hair fell into strands, as though combed with the wide end of a comb. She was suddenly overwhelmed by two distinct sensations, one the root of the other, the way emotion is the depth of thought. Part of her felt maternal towards him; the other part felt like an unsure child.

He was still crouched on the fender, a dazed boxer in a neutral corner. Then his hands dropped, his eyes opened, and he looked up at her. His voice sounded shaky. “I’m sorry to be . . .”

He was about to say “a bore” when Phyllis raised her hand, which still held the singed curl. With a “Sshh,” she placed it in the sink. “Tried everything, huh?”

He grinned. It brought spots of colour back to his face. “Thanks. Your first time too, I guess.”

“I’ve smoked before. Trying to give it up actually.”

Zeno continued to gaze at her. He said evenly, “I meant, in a female body.” Under most circumstances she would have scoffed, but she didn’t. She didn’t move either. Zeno unwound his legs and stood up. “We’ve been together before, haven’t we?”

Phyllis’s mind splayed out into itself She recalled the end of her dream, just before she had woken. But she hadn’t woken—she’d dreamed she’d woken. The dream had continued. She had heard a strange noise—music—and seen a face, the woman whose face she had seen imprinted on Zeno’s. This person had changed during the dream. She had become remarkably like the man who stood before her now. Zeno reached out his hand and laid it on the side of her neck. The touch was uncluttered by thought, motive, or sexual overtone, yet it sent a tremor through her. She heard herself sigh, and restrained an almost irrepressible urge to touch the space in front of his ear.

There followed an instant in which, in the future, whenever either of them gave it any thought, neither would even guess how much time passed. There came catcalls of anticipation from the garden, and Phyllis shivered. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. She saw Zeno’s glance waiver. A ‘we can’t just leave’ expression crossed his face. “You going to make waves for them—or for us?”