He didn't look up when I walked in. He was pouring himself something amber from a heavy glass bottle, slow, like he had all the time in the world, like I wasn't even there. He was wearing a black sweater pushed up to his elbows and dark pants and his hair was slightly damp at the temples like he had showered not that long ago. He looked, somehow, even better in his own apartment than he did in a classroom, and I hated him for that too. I added it to the list.

I stood by the elevator. The doors closed behind me with a soft sound.

"You're early," he...