The sound of your shoes dropping, thwack! and another thwack! tells me our careful trestle has collapsed, lunchtime détente, over. Never mind, this is the reason for a bag of books, why I dump out Heaney, Hemingway, Joyce, Oates, Vuong and read madly under the monkeypod tree. Still, the ache of your silence stays with me, only thing to do—swim to the pier, return to find a plover pecking at the flyleaf picture of James Joyce. We will learn to tolerate. Become happy. Eventually, news of each other’s deaths will not trouble us. But just now you were watching from a fourth floor window; I saw your muscled back retreating.