He is with Alyce Ardell once again, for this, too, is a roundelay, a dance within dances. Alyce Ardell is now living with him. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark lips, scent unpolluted by liquor, breath without the vomitous undertow of the permanently soused. His head rests against her belly. Alyce Ardell is humming to him, her hand in his hair.
Why are you sad? she asks.
—I didn’t know that I was.
—You’re often sad.
—I have been through strange times.
—For a strange man.
—Am I strange?
—I believe you are.
—Why?
—Because I love you, and have never asked for anything from you beyond the time we spend together, yet you throw away a year of your life on a woman who never cared for you at all, and who only wished to bleed you dry. So, yes, you’re a strange man.
—Do you love me?
—Of course I do.
—If I asked you to marry me, would you accept?
—Are you asking me to marry you?
—Maybe I’m not sure until you offer an answer.
—This isn’t a scene in a picture. It doesn’t work that way.
—You haven’t asked me if I love you.
She is quiet for a time. He prompts her.
—Well?
—I haven’t asked because I’m afraid of how you might reply.
—Then that leaves both of us with questions we’re scared to have answered.
They speak of it no more. Eventually, he dozes. When he wakes, she is watching him.
What? he says.
—When are you happy? And don’t reply with some foolishness about when you’re here with me. Tell me the truth: When are you really happy?
He reflects.
—I’m happiest when I’m by the sea.