She stands at the window looking out at the storm brewing at sea.
She turns around suddenly.
She sweeps everything off the table: the box of pictures, the letters,
the two empty goblets of wine.
She grabs her jacket, her umbrella, her glasses.
She storms out of the apartment and takes the stairs.
She runs down the third floor, the second floor, the first floor.
She stalks out of the building and heads for her car.
She stops and puts her hand in her pocket.
She brings out her wallet, a stick of gum, her wedding band.
She fumbles for her keys.
She heads back into the building, and takes the elevator.
It climbs past the first floor, the second floor, the third floor.
She rings the doorbell once.
She rings the doorbell twice, three times.
The apartment is silent
But for the sound of lightning, of thunder, of rain.