August 24, 2002:

With the help of her ex-husband we moved her heavy bed into her own apartment.

Moonlight from an open window glints silver-white on her jet-black hair. Cool air falls from the gently rippling curtain, but they're warm beneath her sheets. With a gentle fingertip he softly traces the curve of her ear.

She sighs, and whispers, "I wish I was with my husband tonight."

She wanted the ability to speak frankly and without forethought. That is, without consideration. "That's what I had with my ex-husband," she said.

Sunlight and warm sea air billow through open French doors. Apartment on a clifftop above a beach of booming breakers. He's working at the writing desk. Glances up at the sea: she's there standing with her face pressed against the glass, waiting for him to notice.

Later she said, "My ex-husband enjoyed it when I interrupted his work."