He stands in the pantry, curry powder, sweet basil, sticking in his throat

Lines of white light pour through the slats in the door. He's alone breathing powdery air. Here in the pantry he stretches his jaw, warms it up the way an actor does in the wings before he takes the stage.

Then Sylvia comes. She fills the jug, spoons coffee into a cup, seems to fall into her chair. She reaches for her smokes, but doesn't light one. She just sits, holding the smoke between her fingers. Her hair is messy, reminds him of driftwood kindling. Like his own.

He pushes the door open and the hinges creak. She turns to him, her face soft and tired.

Where have you been?

She speaks quietly, but her voice wobbles. They let the question float away. Outside in the paddock the brown grasses wave in and out of focus in the morning heat. You know, Federico, I wish … Sylvia stops. She looks up at the ceiling. The mole at the base of her throat moves up and down when she swallows, and there are tiny lines under her chin. How is he a part of her? She looks at him. Hey, you're taller than me

He nods.

I remember when you were this big. She holds her hands apart as if measuring a fish. She gives a half-laugh. From when you could talk, you always called me Sylvia, copying Bea I suppose, except you couldn't say it. You said sillier. It pissed me off.

She turns back to her coffee. He sits down beside her. For long minutes they are quiet. Outside, a patch of blue like a cut reaches up toward the stratosphere. From there he can see it. He points out the window.

Look, Sylvia.

Yes. The moon.