Lazarus nods, having expected as much. "Belle Goldman. She was my therapist, and then we lived together, and then..." he coughs, trailing off. "She had endless patience. Back then I really needed it. Far more than lately, though maybe not as much as recently. She lost her Number and reconnected with an old flame, to the last of my knowledge, and I've stopped keeping tabs on her. It feels inappropriate, somehow."

For Lazarus to recognize that might actually be profound. He stirs the milk, scooping the wrinkled skin developing of the surface.

"It doesn't mean I don't ever wonder how things might have gone under different circumstances."