BUT ON Monday she was not there. He backed to one side of the brick arch, black iron gate swung open to the courtyard, halves pushed back like unfolded box lids. When people passed on the root split sidewalk, in the new turned daylight, he dropped his chin, put his hand to the bill of his hat and nodded it to them, like he saw old men do, like cowboys on television. Some of them nodded back at him, a few smiled. He scooped one of the menthol stubs he knew she dropped, not halfway burnt, straightened the paper and filter, put it to his mouth. After he finished that one, he got another, and then he gathered up all he could find, put them to one of his empty cigarette boxes and shut the lid.