It was a word she used to describe the clearing up of a mystery. He said it was the wrong word. I think it might be the right word to describe what seems to be happening to Smoker (2). Or so it seems to me as I catch glimpses of him through his venetian blinds. I try not to snoop. I look for his light to come on, in his bedroom first and then his kitchen downstairs. It’s usually about 6.30am. I see him stretched across, or on the edge, of his unmade bed (usually black sheets) reading his phone. He doesn’t seem to smoke out of the window anymore. Perhaps he has given up and my appellation for him is no longer apposite. Anyway, his room, and indeed his clothes and hair are becoming distinctly disorderly. There are dirty clothes left on the floor, the clothes rack is still up and still heavy with those perpetually drying clothes. Is it all a sign of unhappiness? Is he missing his children, or is he just lost? Or is it all none of my business? I feel an affinity with him, though I don’t know him at all. And the narrative I spin for him is all mine. I hope I am wrong. Truly.
