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him in the blue chair, but each time she offeredher nipple, he pursed his lips and turned his face away. To calm him she walked around the apartment. It was as ritualistic as the Stations of the Cross, beginning with her polka-dot shirt; she held up the shirt on its hanger and he grew pensive. Before the pattern ceased to interest him, she moved on to the ivy plant, that one particular leaf that fascinated him, and she felt him relax his weight against her shoulder; his head fell into the crook of her neck and he slept.

FOUR
     
    MARY ORDERED MINT tea and a cranberry muffin and sat in a chair in back listening to Christmas jazz and watching snow blow horizontally past the front window. The wood tables were mostly empty, just a young woman in a ponytail writing out Christmas cards and the Man at his usual table in back. She glanced at him as he wrote in his notebook. Sometimes he used a felt-tip marker and other times she saw him use a pencil to trace a blueprint, a long sprawling single-story house. He always wore the same outfit: khaki pants creased down the front and a white button-down shirt, each cuff folded back neatly to the elbow. His shoulders were heavy and wider than her husband’s, and he had wrinkles around his eyes.
    She sat down. The baby’s face was smushed against the side of the carrier, and he was elfin in his little green cap and matching mittens. He grimaced in his sleep. She shouldn’t have had that slice of onion on her tuna fish at lunch. Onions did odd things to her milk. She rocked forward to comfort him. Snowflakes outside zigzagged across the window, and inside, the wood grain of her table glimmered. She watched the counter girl use silver tongs to lay glazed donuts out in the display case.
    Her husband’s story about last night was rickety, particularly his account of the hours between two and when he reached home at five. Instead of being contrite, he was angry about her questions. She’d ruined everything by being jealous; now he didn’t want to stay home Christmas Eve. They’d planned to make dinner and watch a video, open the presents she had bought for the baby. Now he was going to the Orphan’s Party his friend Roger threw every year.
    Mary yelped and sprang up; something had bitten her leg. A hand laid down a wedge of napkins over the spilled tea, and when she turned she saw the Man leaning forward, so close she could have touched his face.
    “Sorry,” Mary said, motioning to the tipped paper teacup. “I’m clumsy.”
    “Not to worry,” he said. “Are you wet?”
    Mary examined the baby and then her coat for spots, but the tea had only stained her pant leg. “I’m fine,” she said.
    The Man hesitated; he didn’t seem to want to go back to his own table. “You look tired.”
    Mary blushed. “I guess I am,” she said. “You know, not a lot, just a little.” She pressed her fingernails into the palm of her hand and thought of herself in her ratty coat moving around the neighborhood.
    “My name is John.” He held out his hand.
    “Mary,” she said, touching his thick fingers.
    “Can I sit here?” he said, pulling out a chair.
    Mary looked at the empty chair and nodded.
    “What are you reading?” She pointed to the book splayed in half on the table.
    “Poincaré this evening. I’m rather taken with his claim that he could move material objects from one closed container to another.”
    “Could he?” Mary asked.
    “Probably not. He also insisted that once when he rotated a cup”—he swirled his coffee—“a little sparrow flew out of the bottom.”
    Mary saw in his blue eyes a few specks of white which shifted slowly like plastic chips in a snow dome.
    “Did he have any theories about air having the same properties as paper?”
    John’s expression didn’t change but his eyebrows shifted up. “How do you mean?”
    “It’s going to sound crazy,” Mary said, “but reality can get these little pinprick holes.”
    John leaned forward conspiratorially; the