Claire closes the door, watches him trot down the steps and onto the sidewalk until he's just out of site, and then spins around on the sock-covered balls of her feet. Her apartment, still thick with his cigarette smoke, now rings with a peaceful silence. Her eyes swallow up the traces he left behind: an empty mug on the counter next to the sink, scattered ashes on the coffee table. The VCR clock informs her that it's too early to call Suzanne, so instead she picks up the small wire bound book on her bedside table and throws herself across the width of the bed. She chokes down a combination stomach spasm of lust and dread, pulls the pen from the book's spine, and begins to write.