She saw him differently now, though outwardly he looked the same as ever. All had changed in the instant of a phone call from an office somewhere in the city, and now they knew. He was sick. He was dying in fact. It might be weeks, or months or even years, but already she was moving on in her mind, and in her heart. All those plans, the years that once seemed long stretched out before them, after the kids were grown, and then retirement, and old age holding hands on the porch in the bungalow of her dreams. Those dreams were being revised now, that hand replaced by another one yet unknown but undoubtedly on its way from the future. Someday she would meet that hand, but this one, the one she was looking at now as it held the TV remote and changed the channels, that hand was already receding, already vanishing from the world existing only in her head.