2. By the crack in the door David Green could see her. She had gotten so brazen that she walked right up to the threshold of the apartment door and kissed him longingly. They entwined their fingers together, as if to suture their separate selves. And when he moved toward the steep set of stairs, their hands would remain attached until it was necessary for him to pivot and turn and take the steps down. Green often thought he would fall. Green moved quickly away from the door and sat in the chair, shielding his face with yesterday’s New York Times. He heard her near the front door, hanging her coat on the heavy, tipping, oak coat rack. She moved about loudly, opening and closing doors, slamming cabinets. Then he realized it was silent and she was standing in front of him. She was drinking something in insolent sips. “Dave, we have to talk,” she said between sips. Green remained behind the paper. “Would you look at me Dave?” He let the paper down. Her hair was wet. “We can’t go on like this Dave,” she said, taking another sip. “Like what?” “Like this, you know Dave.” “Not really,” “I don’t know if you’re the idiot or I am.” “Do you want that question answered?” “Don’t be an ass. I see you looking at the door. Every day I expect a scene but there’s nothing.” “You want a scene?” Dave said, moving toward the coat rack. “I’ll just leave. What more needs to be said? You just want the satisfaction.” She grasped him, and the heavy coat rack fell, nearly hitting his skull. He moved around it and out the hall without his coat. “It’s raining,” she called after him. “Then I’ll get wet.” She trailed him. “I have to tell you something.” She grasped him, but he pushed her away. “I need an explanation,” she said, and he managed to say “From me?” before he realized he was at the lip of the stairs, backward, without a chance of changing his trajectory. She reached out: their fingers grasped and then slipped and Green fell. His body rested on the landing at a strange angle. David Green was dead.