how is it possible to miss a woman whom you kept at a distance, so that when she was gone you would not miss her?
Ray ponders his continuing concern for Mirabelle. If she is no longer seeing him, if she is now with someone new, wouldn’t it be the new man’s responsibility to pay for the odd necessity? Ray always had paid; he saw it as his gift to her, but now it is over. Yet he is still compelled to help her. Why?
Some nights, alone, he thinks of her, and some nights, alone, she thinks of him. Some nights these thoughts, separated by miles and time zones, occur at the same objective moment, and Ray and Mirabelle are connected without ever knowing it.
he apologizes for the way he handled everything. “Oh, no…don’t,” she corrects him: “it’s pain that changes our lives.” And there is a pause, and neither speaks. Then Mirabelle says, “I took the gloves to Vermont and stored them in my memory box — my mother asked me what they were but I kept it to myself — and here in my bedroom, in my private drawer, I keep a photo of you.