“Who's attached to things?” Nick said.

        “I'm attached to things that matter.” Anne pushed away from the table and faced Nick. “You know,” she said, “there's nothing smaller than a self-absorbed man.”

        Nick leaned against the counter and stared hard at Anne. “What about a self-absorbed woman!”

        “I won't do it,” she said, walking out of the kitchen onto the deck.

        A light wind rustled through the trees. The deck shook. Anne kept still, listening to Nick move about the kitchen, rinsing dishes and loading them in the dishwasher. She watched the light shift as it filtered through the canopy. She heard the murmur of pine, the sleepy groan of oak branches, the chatter of blue jays, the click of the front door.

        She wished she could climb to the top of the old oak like she did when she was a child, no fear of falling. From the tree-top, there was always a marvelous sense of permanence, the tree standing tall, having held away the storms of decades, generations, protecting the birds and squirrels, protecting her in a sea of branches, a green expanse extending as far as she could see. A shiver rippled up Anne's spine. She looked over her shoulder into the kitchen and noted how empty it seemed.