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work, going over proofs of photos, enhancing here, lightening, darkening, whatever the image requires. But my mind’s elsewhere.
    The movie is a relationship drama, the kind of film my ex calls a full-boxer, meaning that she’ll weep so much she’ll use an entire box of tissues. Liana doesn’t cry, though. Instead, she watches the movie with intense concentration, as if she’s studying it. Learning from it.
    We’re sitting side by side, but she’s so absorbed in the movie that she’s not paying attention to what I’m doing. I minimize my photo program and log onto the Internet. I do a search on Sons of Babel , and I find a biblical reference from the book of Ezekial: “The sons of Babel came to her, and defiled her with their whoredom.” A sick twist of nausea grips me, and I try to tell myself that it’s a coincidence, that it has no bearing on Liana. But I can’t help thinking about how she spoke to Gray-Hair as if she knew him. I search a bit more, but I find nothing on a business called Sons of Babel. Whatever work those men do, it seems they don’t feel the need to advertise, at least not on the Web.
    Next I look up Spindlekin. I have more luck this time. An online dictionary tells me that it’s an old-fashioned word meaning “descended or related on the distaff side.” I know distaff means female , but I can’t see how the word applies to the three men upstairs. I remember once more what the man who came down to apologize, Mr. Mustache, said: Important to me and my Spindlekin. Was he trying to say the three of them are related? Maybe Spindlekin is some kind of regionalism, a term that’s common enough wherever these men are from.
    I close the program and glance at Liana. Her gaze remains fixed on the TV screen. I think of how I could do an Internet search on her, if only I knew her last name. And it occurs to me, with more than a little surprise, that I haven’t felt the need to ask for her full name, not once since I met her. And I still don’t.
    I shut my laptop, put it aside, and scoot closer to Liana. She reaches out to take my hand and we watch the rest of the movie, doing our best to ignore the pounding footsteps of our new neighbors above.
    * * *
    She asks me to join her in bed that night. Not for sex, I know, but because she’s nervous. It’s close to midnight, and the stomping is still going on overhead, has been incessant all evening.
    Liana is lying shivering in bed, the light on. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts, and I’m wearing a T-shirt as well, along with a pair of boxers. I slide beneath the covers with her and move close—but not too close. I feel awkward just lying next to her, so I reach out to take her hand. But before I can find it, there’s a deafening crash from upstairs, as if someone’s lifted a piece of heavy furniture and dropped it right above us. I’m surprised that chunks of plaster don’t break free and shower down on us.
    The crash startles Liana so much that she rolls toward me and grabs hold of my body. It’s less an embrace than a desperate reach for something solid to hang onto, and I know this, but it still feels good to have her body pressed against mine. I gather her into my arms, my nostrils filling with the sweet-rank smell of her. Does her trembling lessen? Maybe, just a little.
    Fifteen minutes pass, and the stomping comes at increasingly longer intervals until finally it ends. I figure maybe the men upstairs are ready to settle down for the night, and I wait to hear the creak of bedsprings, the heavy sigh of someone settling into his bed, deep breathing or even snoring as sleep comes on. But there’s nothing, and I get the impression that the men are above us, standing still. Listening.
    Liana kisses me then, and although I’m self-conscious, we make love again. I can’t stop imagining the three men upstairs listening, crouched down, ears pressed against the floor, but despite this, I manage to give an adequate account of myself. Liana