“Maybe she didn’t know how to break it to you.”

“Break what to me?”

“If she’d broken it,” she said, “then we’d know. Bern, she must have done her own packing. Anybody else would have packed up the sheets and blankets along with everything else.”

“Whereas she’d leave them behind because she regarded them as contaminated?”

“She would know if they came with the apartment, and sometimes they do in furnished rooms or sublets. What about the kitchen stuff?”

“There was a two-burner hot plate and tabletop refrigerator. I didn’t notice any pots or pans.”

“She probably ate out all the time.”

“As far as I know, all she ever ate was popcorn. And half of an eclair.” I shrugged. “I didn’t check to see if there was anything in the fridge. Maybe I should have. I had a slice of pizza for lunch and popcorn for dinner.”

“That’s terrible, Bern.”

“Well, I had a real breakfast,” I said. “At least I think I did. It’s hard to remember.”

“We should get you something to eat.”

“We should get me something to drink,” I said, and carried our glasses back to the bar.

A little later she said, “Bernie, I keep thinking that I ought to tell you to go easy on the booze. And then another voice tells me to let you drink all you want.”

“That second voice,” I said, “is the voice of truth and reason.”

“I don’t know about that, Bern. You’re putting a lot of alcohol into an empty stomach.”

“That’s a good place for it,” I said. “Anyway, I wouldn’t call it empty.” I patted the organ in question. “Popcorn takes up a lot of space,” I said. “If you want to fill a stomach, you can’t beat popcorn.”