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back—the leaves would have turned from green to red and yellow. The cedar waxwings would be eating the last of the crab apples. The light would have turned from gold to silver and the air would be chill.
    But now the sunshine warmed them. They walked with their arms entwined. Francis kissed the top of Billy’s hair, which was warm and sweet.
    A few violets bloomed beneath a birch tree. Francis picked one and stuck it behind Billy’s ear. Billy picked a spray of broom and put it through Francis’s buttonhole.
    Thus bedecked, they ambled. Actually they were killing time and putting a spin on their last moments all at once. They might part forever—it hardly mattered. These moments, so vivid and intense, were as enduring and specific as a piece of music, and could be replayed over and over again.
    As they walked through a grove of poplar trees, the light speckled their arms. Above them cardinals, starlings, and chickadees called to one another. The lawn was dotted with dandelions and buttercups. This pleasant afternoon might be temporarily forgotten, but with the merest effort surely it could be called back in almost perfect detail.

A Little Something
    Late one Saturday afternoon at the beginning of the new year, Francis Clemens sat at a dining room table waiting for his soup to cool. In his own household, the food was generally excellent, but he was not in his own household and the soup he was about to eat had come straight from a can. It was accompanied by two sad-looking pieces of toast that had the texture and taste of corkboard. The butter on this bread tasted, as his wife, Vera, would have said, “a little iceboxy.”
    Francis wore twill trousers, a blue shirt, and a pair of socks. His shoes and underwear were upstairs, and his wife was in Hawaii redesigning the house of a famous dancer.
    Across from Francis, nibbling a saltine, was Billy Delielle. As usual, she was sleepy. She dipped the end of her saltine into her soup and licked it absently. She looked like a baby learning to eat.
    â€œWhat a sight you are,” said Francis tenderly. She was not quite awake.
    â€œYou look rather sweet,” she said. “You look like a ruined satyr. Your hair is all mussed.”
    Francis patted his hair into place. “When we finish this awful soup, let’s go upstairs and take a nap.”
    â€œNap,” snorted Billy. “That’ll be the day.”
    She was wearing his sweater which made Francis’s heart flutter. He could never quite get over her, even if he had just seen her three seconds before. He peered to see if she was going to finish her soup. He was starving and he knew he had eaten the last of the bread. He reflected that he never got enough to eat at Billy’s and that, no matter how much he got of her, his hunger for her never quite abated. He looked out the window to see that it was sleeting. The idea of going out into the cold to get a decent lunch held little charm. Under the table he nudged her with his foot.
    â€œHey,” he said.
    Billy looked up. She was half asleep. “Hey what?” she said.
    â€œI’m starving.”
    â€œHmm,” said Billy.
    â€œI require an egg,” said Francis. “More soup. Anything.”
    â€œThere aren’t any eggs,” Billy said. “I ate the last one.”
    â€œSoup,” said Francis.
    â€œThere isn’t any more,” said Billy. “This is the last can.”
    â€œA saltine.”
    â€œThis is the last saltine,” said Billy. “Do you want half of it?”
    Francis regarded the saltine half. It looked wet and it was not, in fact, half. It was more a scant third.
    â€œThere’s some wheat germ,” said Billie. “On second thought, there’s not. Gee, I’m not good for much, am I?”
    â€œNot for food,” said Francis. “But you have compensating charms.”
    â€œHey,” said Billy. “I know what. You stay here.”
    She