It was intolerable. I was not able to endure it. I asked what he was doing there. He told me that the night was too hot. He did not prefer to stay up. He could not sleep.
He had been waiting for me, wearing his pyjama bottoms. I asked again what he was doing there. He repeated that the night was too hot to sleep through.
He had spilled a bottle of perfume. I became increasingly conscious of, and then almost overwhelmed by, the smell of the citronella. I cleaned a newly-odorous cabinet, at first perfunctorily, then with effort and interest as the scent became controlling.
“What happened here?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.