he chilled more easily, so she crocheted a throw to keep him warm in his favorite spot by the window in his office. She hated doing needle work, but there was no way she’d let somebody’s loveless factory labor take care of him. He would finger it while reading at random from the piles of books on the wooden drum turned side table, at times hold a corner near his nose as if breathing deeply would capture some residue of her touch. Back from the hospital without him forever now, she stands in that white room, crying. She thinks she should straighten, a thing she denied herself when he was here. Instead, she takes the saucer and its half-cup of cold coffee, washes and dries them carefully, returns the pair to their accustomed spot by his books on his drum by his chair. Perhaps some other day, far away from now.