house call

Based on the state of her car (soda cans, coupons, store receipts, a load of laundry, face masks, coins, shoes, a jacket, protein-bar wrappers, old New Yorkers, a copy of Lord of the Flies and of the Brothers Karamazov and of Lolita, half of a bra), he expected similar dishevelment and clutter at her apartment. But no. Its tidiness was blinding. A pared-down spartan rigor tended to by what angels or housekeepers was anybody's guess. It threw him off: a spatial version of jet lag. One bedroom, futon on the floor. no blinds, drapes, or shades. A open space less than a den or living room, by the kitchen: a squat coffee table with a white candle. Few-enough clothes and artifacts to enable a speedy getaway. The apartment's leanness conjured up a gong of silence.

 --Okay. Let's go.

--That's it?

--That's it.