A Man And A Woman -2016- (iPhone)

He looked up, and for the first time, she saw not a man but a frightened animal. "I don't know the difference," he said.

Summer was a truce. They went to a cabin in the Laurentians. They swam in a lake so cold it erased thought. At night, he played her a recording he had made: the sound of a single needle dropping on vinyl, then the groove before the music. "This is what I love," he said. "The anticipation. The space where nothing has happened yet."

"It's high-frequency. Most people can't hear it. But if you're very still, it's like the universe whispering that you're alone." A MAN AND A WOMAN -2016-

They hung up. Outside her window, Toronto was a grid of lights, each one a person pretending not to be lonely. Outside his, Montreal was a cathedral of snow, beautiful and cold and absolutely silent.

He answered on the first ring. "I'm listening to snow," he said. He looked up, and for the first time,

"That's not love. That's surveillance."

"I record everything. It's what I do."

She laughed. It was a sad laugh, the kind that knows the joke is on you. "I took a picture today," she said. "An empty room. The light was perfect. And I thought, 'Daniel would love this.'"

That night, walking home, he asked, "Did you sleep with him?" They went to a cabin in the Laurentians