He savored the last solo, the coda. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. He laughed at her heartily, and she laughed too as she had not for a year. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. She asked no further questions for the moment.
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