I sit in an upstairs room of my husband’s parents’ house. My coffee cup is empty but I’m afraid of waking the others. The windows have waves of frost in their perfectly square panels, and I am craving a Clementine. Badly. I want to peel it, section it, bite the section in two. I want to wonder if I should have another and then I want to peel that one too. The clouds are so thick, the day feels still yoked to the night. In his childhood bed, my husband sleeps. I wonder what dreams he has.