At 8pm, he emails and says he misses her.
I know he's drunk.
I wait until the following morning to call him.
He's still drunk.
He talks about Preston Sturges.
There's a turbulence, underneath, he says.
Sometimes, a little bit comes to the surface; enough to try and guess at what's going on.
Not with Dickens, he says.
With Dickens, everything is behaviour.
I'm regretting calling.
He talks about taking responsibility and how some survivors came out of Auschwitz stronger and some blamed it forever.
I lay the phone on my lap and look out the window.
There's a white mist in the distance, covering the city.
Only the tops of the tallest buildings are visible.
But I can still see the skyline.