In bed, after Boxing Day, the wee small hours of the twenty-seventh, aligned like spoons between the sheets, Foxx said, “Where are you?”
“Eh?”
“Well, you’re not here with me. You’re not even in the same room, so where are you?”
“There are things I have to do. Won’t take long.”
“And when they are done?”
“I’ll be back. I promise.”
“Then I won’t ask who she is.”
“Was, not is.”
“Oh fuck, Troy. What have you done?”