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I woke up to the sound of someone crying. Not good. I opened my eyes, saw black and remembered that I was sleeping over at Karin's, in Amsterdam. She was in her single bed. I was on a camping mat on the floor next to her.

I unzipped my sleeping bag half-way, wormed my way out of it and sat up. I could make out a few things in the dark, but not much. Her bed was to my left. I reached my right arm over and found her shoulder. Her back was to me. I gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. After a while she rolled over onto her back. I switched arms, put my left hand on her forehead and stroked her hair back a few times. She started crying again.

I was kneeling next to her bed, bare-chested and cooling off quickly in an unheated room.

I resisted the temptation to crawl into bed with her; I was still a gentleman. We'd never had sex with each other, and I wasn't about to use this as an excuse. I did sleep over occasionally after our theater course if the last train back to my city, Leiden, had already left for the day.

-It's Pierre. He died two years ago, today, she said.

I heard and felt her fighting away the tears.

...

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