(Etienne's Point Of View)
After Isobel left, I stood at the window for a long time, watching the city move below. Morning traffic made a slow, indifferent tide; a pigeon hopped along the sill, ruffling its feathers as if the world were of no consequence. The apartment smelled faintly of her perfume and the coffee I'd never finished—acrid at the rim, almost sweet when it cooled. My reflection in the glass looked like a man on the edge of a decision: pale against the bright street, an outline caught between two lights. I pressed the heel of my hand to the pane and felt the glass give a measured, cool resistance beneath my palm.
She needed time. I'd give her that.
