There it is again. Tapping, but more urgent this time; knocking. He tells himself it is a dream, but when he opens the door she is there, in a bright yellow ski jacket zipped up to her chin. Her eyes meet his then flick down to his shoulders, his legs, his shoulders again, his feet, his neck. Anywhere but his face. Her expression. Her lack of expression, as if she doesn’t like what she sees, as if she’d been expecting something better.
‘Come in,’ he says.