At 8:17 on Monday morning, you look right through me. You tap your chipped fingernails against the ceramic of the half empty coffee cup in your hand, and you look right through me.

You tap your nails on the cup, still stained with yesterday's lipstick, and you frown. Not at me of course, but at the cold rain that spatters against my outer sill. Why don't you smile, I ask silently. Smile that, though there is rain, you remain warm and dry, because of me. But giving thanks for the hidden blessings is not your style. I don't hold that against you. It's not an indictment, rather it is a consequence of your enviable simplicity. No, not simplicity, pragmatism.

In a single swallow, you toss back the rest of the coffee and turn away. Outside, the woman across the road that you hate opens her door and steps out in a yellow rain slicker, her Pomeranian in tow, dressed identically. I am glad you have turned away and opened the refrigerator door for the third time to peer in in the hopes of finding eggs (of which there are still none; he ate the last two last night in an omelet). It always infuriates you to see the way she dotes on the animal. And the sneer you make when no one but me is there to see it is perhaps your least flattering expression.

Five minutes later you are out the door, without breakfast. I watch you down the road, your army surplus parka pulled tight around you, its down stuffing little more than a sponge. You tap the right breast pocket, your own womanhood swallowed up by the voluminousness of the jacket, wanting a cigarette but knowing it is too wet to light one. You turn right at the corner and, perhaps three minutes later, pass by again, this time in your sad and faded Chevy on your way to work. Plumes of smoke already begin to fill the cabin and sputter from the exhaust and I imagine that I can deduce the song playing on the radio from the way the raindrops spatter on your windshield. Leonard Cohen, maybe.

It's nearly four hours later before he stumbles bleary-eyed and clothed only in a much-abused Doors t-shirt into the kitchen. He too opens the refrigerator door, stares inside, and closes it again, likely too hungover to remember having eaten the eggs. He pours himself a mug of coffee from the fresh pot you made for him after drinking yours. He adds a splash of rye whiskey, takes a sip, and then adds another more generous splash. From the cupboard he retrieves a can of sliced pineapples, pops its pulltop with a vaguely menacing puh-skritch, vaults his naked ass up onto the countertop with his back to me, and proceeds to eat it with his fingers.

Upon finishing his meal, he drops back to the floor, pours himself a cup of rye with a splash of coffee and pads out of the room in the direction of his studio. For two hours he stays in there. The klick klack of the keyboard comes only sporadically at first but soon builds up into the sort of steady waves of prose that I used to hear from that room when you first moved in. I admit that I am a little surprised by this.

At 2:07, he reappears in the kitchen long enough to drop his mug in the sink and peer through me with eyes of sick expectation. The truth begins to dawn on me then. The cold bright sun has driven away the rain, a thin veneer of ice has formed on the road, and steam rises from a manhole. A quick glance at the clock sends him to the washroom. The shower runs for seven minutes and then comes the sound of the electric shaver. It is that sound which buzzes through me and shears away my last doubts. She is coming again today.

I catch only the briefest refraction of him as he rushes upstairs, water still clinging to his thin body. When he returns he is dressed in grey slacks and the black sweater you told him last week he should wear more often. His hair is just messy enough to look unintentional and he's got an unlit cigarette planted in his clean shaven face. He pours himself the rest of the coffee, leaves it black this time and lights his cigarette from the stovetop. With a vulgar thrust he lifts my lower half free of the frame and forcees it upwards. I feel dirty, violated, and wish for the rain to return to at least partially wash his touch from me. He leans perversely against the tower and drapes his right hand out through this wound, occasionally ashing his cigarette onto the front walk two stories below.

I see her before he does. She walks with a well-concealed nervousness. The messenger's bag slung over her shoulder looks unwieldy on her, as though she would be more comfortable wearing a purse but wants to be the kind of person who wears a messenger's bag. Her dark hair is up under a knit wool cap and this serves to accentuate how much she looks like you. I wonder then if he has noticed this and how he feels about it if he has.

When he finally does notice her approach, he extinguishes his cigarette in a tiny puddle on my outer sill and retreats fully into the kitchen. He stands perfectly still, consciously controlling his breathing as a parade of ugly expressions traverse his face. He remains that way right up until the moment the abrasive buzz of the doorbell cuts through the air. Then, he smiles, runs a hand through his hair and rushes downstairs to let her in.

They pour up the stairs and into the kitchen. She is laughing at some joke he made at the door. She places her messenger bag on the counter and takes off her jacket. His eyes become deeply lascivious while she is not looking at him, and fade to being only slightly less so when she turns to face him again. There is a moments awkward silence, then she laughs again, higher pitched this time, and reaches into her bag. She withdraws a small sheaf of papers and hands it to him.

"Oh!" he says. "You finished it?"

"Not quite," she says shyly, "but I wanted to know what you think of it so far."

He takes the sheaf from her and seems to actually give it his full attention. She doesn't know what to do with her eyes as he reads and they dart over him and the kitchen and finally to me. She shivers and asks why the window is open.

"The cold air inspires me," he says without a trace of irony. "Here, let me pour us some whiskey. It will warm you up."

"Cheers," he says once the glasses are filled. And then: "Oh! Come into the other room. While I finish with this, I want you to read something I wrote this morning."

From the studio the voices drift unintelligibly over the next hour and a half. He comes in once to refill their glasses. And then somehow he manages what he has never succeeded at in her previous visits and entices her upstairs. Shortly thereafter there come from the bedroom a cruel parody of the sounds that you and he haven't produced in weeks. She is sheepish when they reappear an hour later.

"I should go," she says uncomfortably, pulling her jacket on over her slightly rumpled clothes. He stands there in his underwear and doesn't disagree.

"I'll call you," she says. He tells her that e-mail would be better. He leans in for a kiss. She lets is land on her cheek and then slips away.

He comes over to me to watch her walk away. When she is gone he grabs a hold of me roughly and forces me down.

#

At 6:37 PM your car passes in front of the house and turns right at the corner. Two minutes later, you reappear on foot, a thin wisp of smoke from your cigarette rising into the glare of the streetlight. You have plastic bags in your hands and your jacket is clearly still wet, though it stopped raining nine hours ago. When you reach the doorstep, you stop to finish your cigarette before coming in.

He is back in his office, listening to that slow drifting electronic music that you always say makes you feel claustrophobic. When he hears your key turn in the lock, he quickly begins to type. He knows you will hear it and not disturb him.

You throw your jacket over the railing with a heavy thwalsh and place your grocery bags on the kitchen floor. You stretch your arms out in an exaggerated yawn for no-ones benefit but mine. The hem of your sweater rises just enough to show the smooth lines of your stomach. You are beautiful. It makes me sick that he no longer tells you so.

The moment ends. You stash the groceries in the cupboards and fridge. You pour yourself a glass of orange juice and then you look right through me.

The stubbed out cigarette from earlier catches your eye. It kills me to be associated with it. You grimace and reach your fingers out towards me. Your touch is warm but businesslike. With a quick flick, you raise me just the few inches required to reach out and flick the cigarette butt away. You will never mention it to him. You forgive him so much so easily.

When he finally wanders into the kitchen, you take in his appearance with a loving glance I can barely stand to watch.

"You look good," you say.

He mumbles something that could be misinterpreted as thanks and opens the refrigerator door.

"Do you want me to make dinner?" you ask.

He shakes his head no while drinking from the orange juice carton.

"Did you get any writing done today?" you ask.

"Some."

"When do I get to read it?" you ask.

"It's not ready to be read yet."

You walk up behind him and put your arms around his waist, nuzzling your face into his neck.

"I can't wait to read it," you say.

You nibble at his ear. He closes the refrigerator door and insinuates his way out of your arms, turning and walking the three paces to stand before me.

"What's wrong?" you ask.

"Nothing."

The wound the lie cuts into you is naked upon you. He keeps his back to you. You stand there is silence for twelve seconds, open your mouth and close it again. You stand in silence for sixteen seconds more.

"Is there someone else?" you ask.

He tenses visibly and for a second I think he might confess, might cry, might beg forgiveness. He spins to face you.

"How dare you!"

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off.

"Don't!"

You stand, paralysed, as he pulls on his shoes and then his jacket. You close your eyes and hang your head as his footfalls descend the stairs and out the door. You stand there the whole while as he strides malevolently down the road and away. To her.

Finally, you uncap the bottle of rye and light a cigarette from the stove.

At 7:31, you look right at me. The darkness outside renders me a mirror and you take in the way the tears streak your eyeliner.You hate me for showing you yourself and I understand. You could throw the bottle right through me in your rage and I would understand.

I would.