But the girl from Hasle was called Annette, and she wasn’t like that. She couldn’t see much, though that didn’t matter because he could see for them both, and on the whole it suited him just fine that he was allowed to be a man who was invisible, yet present. The sort of man who would always be there with a light hand on the small of his woman’s back. Nor did it matter that he was a mere mist on her half-dead retinas. That way he wouldn’t be judged for his grimaces when he lost control. It was a heartening thought, and it made him cross his legs on the number 8, in the seat reserved for those with restricted mobility, where once a heavily made-up girl had got him to stand up by claiming she was a semiotician and had tired legs. That was before America, before the faraway but well-planned walks, and that kind of girl didn’t interest him anymore.​78