Like every morning, Siobhan goes down to buy a Coke Zero and to smoke. The first thing I hear is the click of the lock as she leaves; I think it’s right to say it wakes me. She takes her time; she flirts with the wistful old solitaire who owns the corner shop; she stands, I imagine, gripping the can like a commuter trying to stay upright.

I feel no breeze, but the plastic bar at the bottom of the blind starts tapping against the window frame. It will be hot again. In the hall Siobhan fumbles with her keys. I have surmised that she drinks only while she smokes—Benson & Hedges, like her father—but she always brings the can upstairs. I hear her move around the apartment, pause; she drops and fans out mail on the coffee table. She wears cheap flats like slippers, crushing their black-sequined counters underfoot, and with each step they thwack against her feet like rubber thongs. I don’t have to open my eyes; I see it.