I wanted someone to love who would stay: stay and be there, always.

He would say her name over and over until it devolved into meaningless sounds - mah REI kuh, mah REI kuh - it became an entry in a dictionary of loneliness.

What are you doing?" Nothing. Breaking and entering. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

I look at him, look at the book, remember, this book, this moment, the first book I ever loved

That's what alcoholics do. It's in their job description: fall apart and then keep falling apart.

And Clare, always Clare.

Oh. A bigger studio. It dawns on me, stupid me, that Henry could win the lottery at any time at all; that he has never bothered to do so because it's not normal; that he has decided to set aside his fanatical dedication to living like a normal person so I can have a studio big enough to roller-skate across; that I am being an ingrate. "Clare? Earth to Clare..." "Thank you," I say, too abruptly.