Fatigued, he removed his glasses and switched off his hearing aids, which made his lamp dimmer, the constant buzz in his ears stronger. It had become cool in his office, and he put his coat back on. He unwrapped a cough drop and sucked on it. As his senses receded he became dazed; he did not know exactly where he was—the heaviness of his jacket made him believe he was outdoors, his apparent warmth told him he was inside. The only real thing to him was the menthol taste of his lozenge. Then he sensed movement behind him.
Slowly, Eckwright turned in his chair to see Lynn. She wore a red silk robe, which he’d bought for her on one of their early anniversaries. Her hair was pulled back and up in a bun, revealing a face that exuded health—smooth forehead, thick cheeks, a faint glow. Eckwright did not recognize her. In her hand she held a rolled-up pair of black Gold Toes.
“I’m sorry,” Lynn said. “I didn’t want to interrupt. I was trying to be quiet.”
“Those are mine,” said Eckwright. He took them from her and sniffed them. A powerful scent of detergent emanated from the cotton. “Why do you have my dress socks?”
She put her hand on his shoulder, and though the touch was real, it still seemed to the writer in his office nothing more than the echo of a touch, sense distilled into poetry. It reminded Eckwright of the infinity of other caresses that he longed for, that he’d already written, that he’d already forgotten.
“We know each other, right?” Eckwright said. “You look like someone.”
“Here,” said Lynn. From the robe’s pocket she took a wood-carved chess piece, a knight, and handed it to him.
Eckwright placed the figure in its spot on a tan-and-brown board that had been otherwise set in the starting position, and removed the nickel that had marked its place.
“What are you writing?” she said.
Eckwright glanced down at his desk. Through his blurred vision, the pages looked blank.
“A story,” he said.
“Can I see it, maybe? Or do you have to get back to it? I can leave.”
“It’s not finished yet, I don’t think.”
“Oh,” Lynn said.
She held out to Eckwright a watch he’d given her to fix a decade ago, and which he hadn’t seen since.
“Why do you have all this?” Eckwright wanted to know, slipping the leather band around his wrist.
“I’d stolen it,” she said. An old pair of his reading glasses appeared in her palm, and she set them on his nose. “Then hid it from you and pretended it was lost.”
“That seems cruel.”
“You didn’t really need any of it.”
Throughout the night, Lynn retrieved old pairs of sneakers, abandoned notebooks and journals, expired rolls of film, and laid them neatly on Eckwright’s desk. The author held his breath whenever she left his office, exhaled when she came back. Her bearing, Eckwright thought, was reluctant but irrepressible; she didn’t smile as she moved, but she didn’t hesitate, either. Soon his desktop was covered with broken coffee mugs, belts too large now for his waist, books with pages marked by movie stubs. She returned again and again, her arms full.
“I’d forgotten about all these things,” said Eckwright.
“I know,” Lynn said. “You’re a forgetful guy.”
She picked up an old tie—pink floral, its tongue unraveling—and began to loop it around his neck. Eckwright felt he was being restored, as if each article she returned to him held some essence of an earlier life. But because he could not locate the specific memories to which these items belonged (they all somehow pertained to Lynn), he could only perceive a general nostalgia. She knotted the tie and tightened it and tucked it inside his jacket.
The last item she brought was one of the cardboard boxes from the basement containing her belongings. She set it before Eckwright, but refused to open it herself.
“What’s in there?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Lynn said. “A lot, though. It was heavy.”
Curious, Eckwright peeled away the several layers of masking tape he’d used to seal the seams. Even before he opened the flaps, the scent of Lynn’s perfume leaked through the cardboard. When he plunged his hands into the clothes, the garments were cold and stiff, but malleable. His fingers throbbed as he pulled out the dresses, the blouses, the undershirts and bras, each one unrecognizable to him, but strangely worn.
“These aren’t mine,” he said.
But there was no response: Lynn was gone again. He waited a moment for her to come back, wondering what treasure she might return with. Then he ventured out of his office, flicked lights on in the hallway and in the dining room, but could not find her. Her presence began to seem illusory. In the kitchen he wondered what it was he’d been looking for, and opened the refrigerator, confused and expectant. A faint noise brought him back to his office: his radio had begun to emit the ageless, formless flow of static, and he switched it off. His entire body was damp, as if the air in his office had become suddenly tropical. Once again he removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, loosened the tie around his neck, and opened the window to the winter air.
Seated at his desk, he began to skim what he’d written during the evening, and found the work, at least for a first draft, satisfying. Soon he fell asleep. The next day he spent wandering through his home, manuscript in hand, reading aloud to himself.