I went to school. Then I went to the library to study. Sometimes you do things on autopilot. You go through motions with the mind turned off. Like when you see something coming from the corner of your eye, but you don’t let yourself look at it fully. You’re not ready to stare at it yet.

I knew he’d be waiting for me at home.

He was.

She turns off the road and approaches the house on the narrow drive that curves up between stone fencerows. Snow covers the posts and makes humps over the stone columns. It is almost dark. A long blue twilight with tree branches crossing the snow and wind making the branches whisper. She parks in front of the garage and gets out. The sidewalk between the garage and the house has been cleared, but no lights are on in the house. She sits and watches. The tall white house. Shutters across the front. Neat and well kept. He would not have it otherwise. She climbs the steps to the porch and stomps her boots on the knotted braid rug and goes in.

The foyer is cold. The floor of stone. The wood staircase ascends into dark.

He is not here.

The taut wires of her nerves relax a bit, and she opens the closet and hangs her coat and slings her bag of schoolwork onto the walnut bench. She crosses the foyer to the far side of the living room and walks in and runs her hand on the wall to switch on the overhead light. There is nothing. The power is out from the storm.

A lighter flicks. The flame erupts and hits the darkening glass of the window, where Bardem sits in silhouette. He lifts the flame to his lips and lights a cigarette. He gazes at her and says nothing.

She stands there, in the doorway. The whole room starts to whirl. Something in the way he looks at her makes her feel like she can’t move. The room is colder with him in it. Sounds are louder. Minutes slow.

He flicks the lighter off. She can see the red ember of the Marlboro. The shadow of him. Smell of tobacco. He sits there, smoking. In the leather armchair. The fireplace with the great wood mantel and the dark hearth. He looks away from her. His thoughts seem elsewhere.

She finds her voice. “Is everything okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

“The power is out.”

Still nothing. He acts as if she isn’t even there.

“You must be cold,” she says.

“Do you know why I call you my bird?”

His voice is low and soft, a piece of velvet you might brush against your cheek, just to feel the lush texture on your skin.

“What?”