Except finishing. I could never finish. I hated trying to complete a piece. It seemed so final. I used to wonder if they had to be finished at all.

“Of course they do,” he said. “You can’t start something new without finishing. You have to learn to make decisions and be ruthless with yourself.”

Why couldn’t it always be a work in progress? Why not let it remain forever unfolding? To keep that transfer going. Framing a finished painting on a wall was never my objective.

Steps in the hall, and then Shelley appears at the door, intruding on my daydream. I haven’t seen her since yesterday. There’s a lot I could tell her, about how much I ate and how I talked with Hilbert.

“Penny? Sorry to interrupt, but we’re meeting now.”

How long have I been standing here?

I see that the light from the window has moved from my bed to my dresser. How did this happen? It is already afternoon? This can’t be right.

Shelley sees the bewilderment on my face and steps closer.

“Here, Penny,” she says. “It’s okay. Take my arm.”

As I do, I notice she’s wearing gloves. Clear, thin, plastic gloves on both her hands.

L ike they were at breakfast, the others are here before me, waiting, sitting in the same seats from yesterday. Ruth is whistling. Pete and Hilbert sit quietly. Unlike yesterday, today’s group meeting feels familiar to me, habitual, normal. Jack leans against the wall, looking down at the phone in his hand.

“I hope everyone’s getting excited for the party,” says Shelley, once she’s seated in her chair.

“We love a party. Love it. They’re always fun. Doesn’t matter what kind of party. Big, small. We all have to get there for the start and we can’t leave until the end. We don’t want to miss any of it. No excuses. Maybe we can convince him,” Ruth says, pointing at Pete, “to play for us.”

It’s hard for me to follow everything Ruth says because she speaks so fast, so enthusiastically, occasionally adding the odd French word as she goes.

“I think that’s a great idea, Ruth,” says Shelley.

Ruth giggles.

“I know,” Shelley continues, “that Pete’s been practicing a lot. He’s amazingly dedicated.”

No response from poor, old Pete. I’ve heard about the very elderly who lose the ability to speak. I wonder what he would say to me if he could still talk. I wonder what his voice would sound like, his laugh.

The more I hear Shelley speak, the more I notice a formal intensity in how she communicates. Everything she says sounds almost scripted and rehearsed.

“I used to dance,” I say. It comes out before I know what I’m saying. Everyone, except for Pete, turns toward me. “That was years and years ago. I haven’t danced in so long. I don’t know if it’s even possible at this age, but I have so many fond memories of dancing.”

“Dancing is fun,” says Ruth. “We love it. It takes two to tango.”