He lay still, coming into consciousness, patient about it, listening to the unfamiliar sound of drizzle in the trees. The cat was asleep at the foot of the bed. Harry threw on a robe and crept downstairs, hearing Chopin. But the piano was unaccompanied. He continued on into the kitchen, where he plugged in the coffeemaker and watched the rain fall. The silk-string hammock was damp with rain leaking through the ficus. He thought about cooking an egg, then decided against it. Two aspirin made more sense and he took those with a glass of orange juice, filthy-tasting army-issue concentrate. The orange juice worked its way down, sluggish as glue, metallic, altogether foul. He put his forehead against the windowpane and tried to remember the dream he’d had. Nothing came to him except bright colors. They said all memories were stored in the brain, even dreams. The key to the door was somewhere. But nothing presented itself except the bright colors. He believed his headache was retreating, thanks to the cool window glass against his forehead.
