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157 A You think that if something happens only once, there’s a way in which it didn’t happen. I was at the kitchen window, watching a man in a red tracksuit walk down the street. He was walking slowly, jacket rustling over his belly. He may have been going to the trails, dressed brightly for hunting season. Z was over, waiting for F, wanting to talk about something. He got a glass of water and stood next to me by the window. What is it? he said. I had been holding my mug and staring, not drinking. I was reading, I said, They say they buried people in a stadium by description, there was no time to identify them. An old man in a blue tracksuit, that was one of the graves. His tracksuit’s red, Z said, nodding at the man outside. We were in front of the window where anyone could see, but no one was there. The man had passed. When Z turned toward me I kissed him. Z’s smooth cheeks, his hair that smelled of the candles Vivienne burned. ...
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