“What did you put in?” her father asked. He had lost weight and was gaunt around the chin where the flesh seemed stretched out. In a few months, he would die of lung cancer—two weeks of smothering, his left lung collapsing and his right barely able to process blood and oxygen.

“Nothing,” he said. “I couldn’t think of anything. What did you put in?”

“I put the guitar in, along with her mother’s wedding ring and a few other such objects,” he said softly, and then moved away, back to his spot next to the registration book, where he slowly smoked a cigarette.

“Get your hands off me,” she says, pushing him back against his side of the front seat. All he did, really, was nudge her a bit.

“What’s the deal? I mean I don’t fucking get this. All I’m asking is that you stay here for one night.” He tries to regain his balance, to put aside the little shove with an explanation, but it’s not enough—nor should it be, he thinks immediately.

“You hit me,” she says, getting out.

“I didn’t hit you.”

“You shoved me.”

“Look, it’s just that I’m so frustrated. It’s late. It’s near what? Two? and you have three hours to drive when you could just call and make some excuse, the snow or something.” He follows her to her little Japanese compact. The car has an inch of snow on top, which makes it look even smaller.

She’s crying now, her key shaking in the lock, the snow cascading off the door and roof.

“You’d better clean that off,” he says, but she’s in the car, closing the door. Before she can lock it, he opens it and puts his body partway in. She seems remote and tiny in that dark little space, with only the frail brown-green light from the dash on her face; she ignites the engine, a frail putter of four cylinders that makes him wince, and then she turns the lights on—behind him the wind is increasing; the snow is thickening, blasting against his ears.

“I’m sorry,” he says, holding his voice steady and calm. He has used the slightest force against her and she has responded in turn: there is something, he knows, in the formula, some acute sensitivity to his actions. He feels the answer; he knows the answer, but at that moment he is unable to find it. He’s like the kid going to the board in class knowing how to solve the equation, chalk in his fingers, but too filled with panic to work it out.

“You fucking pushed me. It’s as simple as that, really,” she says again. The wipers are going, moving slowly, hardly able to remove the swaths of snow from the front.

“I’m sorry. I said I’m sorry. Really, I am. I just want you to stay here.” He hunches down into the doorway of the car, his chin touching her thigh.

“I can’t. Not now. Especially now.”

He remembers her hand on that glass in the hotel dining room; he stands and watches her drive down the street; a salt spreader is coming the other way, rotating a yellow splay of light over her path and spewing rock salt. The roads are still clear. It’s just the opening act of the first blizzard of the year. He waits for something, for a blink of brake lights, to let him know that she’s thinking of him.