“I miss your class.” Steeling himself, reimagining Bennet’s body as his own, he leaned in a little.

She stared at him like a nocturnal creature, her eyes huge behind those thick glasses.

“When you came today with your bike—for my help—it’s funny; I realized I wasn’t in school anymore. I realized I didn’t really know you at all and…and that I liked you.”

“I have lots of students who keep in touch with me,” she said, almost curtly. “So what did you want to talk about?”

“Well, that.”

“What?”

“That I like you.”

She made a bizarre grimace, clearly unconscious, flowing through her from her deaf parents, and scratched her scalp with both hands through that wild frizzy hair. When she set one of them back down on the arm of the chair, he put his own gently upon it. She froze. He brought his other hand to rest on her shoulder. Her body was trembling. As he leaned in toward her, she made a strange helpless sound, deep in her throat. He could smell the peanut butter and, beneath that, her stale breath. She didn’t respond in any way as he pressed his mouth to hers. Her eyes continued staring; her lips remained unyielding. All at once some distilled tincture of the rank smell of the house, of her breath, of the insipid cloy of her loneliness, seemed to find its way into the back of his throat and cling there. He felt sick, overwhelmed. He ran into her bathroom and leaned himself over her sink. The bathroom was filthy: The little bucket she used as a garbage pail overflowed with pieces of tissue; the toilet was spattered and choked with brown limescale; a slick black mold surrounded the drain of the sink. He dry-heaved a few times and spat. What was he doing here? Why had he done this?

When he returned, she was still sitting in the armchair in exactly the same position, her posture bent and stiff, like a propped doll. Endless pain. She didn’t look up at him.

“I’m sorry, Miss Kelly.”

She didn’t move or respond in any way.

“I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m sorry.”

When Frank got back to his house, he went straight to Annie’s room. She was asleep and he gently prodded her arm. Pushing his hand off, she turned away, mumbling, “Papa, I want to sleep.”

“It’s Frank,” he whispered.

Rolling back, she half opened her eyes. “Are you okay, Frankie?”

“Shift over.” Kicking off his shoes, he got into her bed and pulled her up into his arms. He just wanted to smell her, her hair and her neck.

“Have you been drinking?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m sorry for messing up your room.”

“You’ve said sorry.”