“A heat patch. I mean, just because you keep grabbing at the back of your neck. It’s great for aching muscles,” the optician said.

“Yes, please,” Elsbeth said.

The optician’s shop was right next to the general store. “Come in. I’ll put one on you right now.”

He unlocked the door and took off his jacket. On his sweater vest was a small badge that said Employee of the Month.

“But you’re the only one here,” Elsbeth said.

“I know, it’s supposed to be a joke.”

“I see.” Elsbeth was never good at getting jokes. Suddenly she could hear her dead husband’s exasperated voice in her ear, “For God’s sake, Elsbeth, it was a joke,” but maybe it was the imp.

“Martin and Luisa think it’s funny,” the optician said.

“So do I,” Elsbeth reassured him. “Very funny, even.”

And the optician said, “Go on, have a seat.”

Elsbeth sat down on the stool in front of the phoropter, the instrument the optician used to test vision. When we were younger, the optician told Martin and me that you could see the future with it. Given the way a phoropter looks, we believed it immediately, and secretly did for a long time.

“You’ll have to uncover your shoulder area,” the optician said.

Elsbeth raised both hands to the nape of her neck and undid the zipper on the back of her tight dress. This alone provided some relief. She pulled the neckline down over her round shoulders to completely uncover the back of her neck—as uncovered as something can be with an imp sitting on it, an imp with very tired little arms who had luckily become very taciturn.

The optician opened the package of heat patches and peeled away the protective paper. “This isn’t the right size for your neck, but it will stay,” he said.

Elsbeth thought of the very last minute and asked herself if the optician was made for secret truths.

The optician carefully placed the heat patch on the nape of her neck and pressed it with his hands so it would stick. The warmth slowly crept under Elsbeth’s skin. The imp jumped off.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Elsbeth asked.

SEX WITH RENATA BLOWS MY MIND

Selma and I went home. Her two-story house was built on a slope with the forest at its back. It was a ramshackle building, and the optician was convinced that Selma’s love was all that held it upright. My father had suggested several times that she should have it torn down and a new one built in its place, but Selma didn’t want to hear it. She knew my father saw the house as a metaphor for nothing less than life, an off-kilter life in danger of collapse.

My dead grandfather, Selma’s husband, had built the house, so how could she let it be torn down?