It wasn't a good fight. He knew something was wrong and he hit her too hard. She slugged back, hurt her hand, cursed, ran and locked herself into the sleep.
She was asleep when he came pounding. She woke and pointed the lock open. She glared.
He said nothing. He ordered his smaller collections—his miniature horses, his ballpoint pens and his old-time cereal box missiles—on to his storeshelf before mounting his sleepshelf and pointing out the light.
She could hear him not sleeping.
Finally he muttered, "Too damn much cheese but it was okay."
She said nothing. She didn't almost cry as she might have a month before.
Brendel had appeared on their grid a year before, a dark, pugnacious young man, jittering and nervous. "Clare Webster around?"
"Mother isn't here." Her mother collected men. She met them at drinking clubs or collector meets. She gave them her grid card and took theirs, making them promise to come see her. If a man came, she tacked his card on her bulletin board. If he came twice or three times, she marked his card with colored pencil.
Brendel twitched his shoulders. "I got the evening. Wanta have dinner, kid?"