I don’t know what I was hoping to find. Or praying I would not find. A copy of Physique Pictorial? A love letter from you? Both ideas were ludicrous; Tom would never have taken such risks. But out it all came, and looking at Tom’s things around me on the rug, I saw that they didn’t amount to very much. Nevertheless, I carried on, digging about in the debris under the bed, sweeping aside odd socks and an unopened box of handkerchiefs, my blouse sticking to me, my hands gray with dust, finding nothing that could further fuel my rage.
