What he saw was his own name - the code name the dry cleaner used
to label his shirts. Something that felt about the size of a
marble felt as though it had suddenly become lodged in his chest.
A little to the left. Yes, there. In his heart.
"What?" she said, freezing in place.
"Oh," was all he could manage at first. He gave a little laugh.
"Nothing, oh nothing. Sorry. I just zoned out there for a
second." His lungs moved, he was breathing again.
"Hmm," she said, a moment's scrutiny, then she shrugged and
transferred the miniature pizzas to the butcher block counter.
"Where's the cutter thing?"
"I'm sorry?" he said. He had blanked her out for a moment, and
was just beginning to recover from his jolt. The cutter thing. He
wanted to be helpful, to tell her where to find it.
Until he found more: The jeans, with their familiar rips where
his own knees had eventually worn through the denim. She was
wearing his pants, too. The marble thing became a fist.
"You know," she said, making a rolling gesture with her hand,
"The pizza cutter thing."
"No. I mean, I don't know. In one of those drawers, probably."
Had she gone through his closet? Had she helped herself to
anything else?
"Ah. Here we go." She returned with the instrument and cut the
pizza into quarters.
Her feet were bare. She wore no jewelry, no watch.
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