She drank three cups of coffee, listening for the owl by the window. She showered, dressed, read a biography of John Coltrane. At a decent hour she called Diane, who had just spoken to the hospital and reported that there was no change in Fengmo’s condition. Soledad cooked a paella, an elaborate production that forced her to concentrate on chopping peppers and onions and garlic. There was no reason James should even answer her ill-judged e-mail. Helping her and Fengmo had been merely the kindness of a stranger, upon which Soledad was determined not to depend. Experience had taught her how that usually turned out. As she chopped, Soledad cataloged James’s possible responses to her leaving his apartment and then e-mailing him. Long ago she’d named these responses after other men she’d been involved with. You made an overture that made them feel crowded—and with some men, anything made them feel crowded—and you could count on one of four responses: “The Wayne,” which was total silence.
