He has not spoken to her in almost a week, cannot bring himself to call, after their joint firing. But he had fallen on his sword immediately, taking the full blame for what had happened, lobbying for her reinstatement. His limited scheming always backfired; he should have known better. But he was completely unprepared for the collateral damage and for how truly hurt she was. He reminds himself of everything she has done over the years (to him, Jenny, teachers, mankind at large), but he still cannot assuage the guilt or articulate why this matters so much to him; he just knows how unsettled it makes him feel.

There was some comfort in knowing that his "confession" had worked. Quiet inquiries made through Eric, by way of Serena, confirmed she was indeed back at "W" and thriving. But there had been no word from her. He did not expect a thank you. One was not deserved. Yet he hoped some acknowledgement might have been communicated. But still nothing, not even a text.

He continues to sit on the steps of the Morgan Library on this impossibly cold January afternoon, hope fading that a tentative joint venture to a Degas exhibit ripe with dainty ballerinas in their finest tutus will be kept. She had warned him not to get his hopes up, and that was before they ended up on the floor of the W party. His third cup of coffee has gone cold and he can barely feel his fingers. Still he waits.

An hour before closing, he imagines her fussing at him for wasting his afternoon and not actually viewing the exhibition after spending the entire afternoon in limbo in front of the building. When did she become the voice in his head? Reluctantly, he makes his way inside.

She was right, of course. There is no denying the visual appeal and intimacy of the canvases on display. It may not be the most evocative subject matter, but he is moved by what he sees.

Near closing and the throng of visitors has thinned, so he lingers in front of one of the larger, more ambitious works. He hears a distinctive clicking-high-end, sky-high designer heels he is certain. As the women approaches, he closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of Chanel #5, and smiles for the first time in days.

"I was promised toe shoes," is all she says, patronizingly.

"Sorry to disappoint you," he smarts back.

"I meant to be here earlier, but had to run some errands for the magazine." She looks up at him then, with a faint hint of apology, as he finally dares to look at her. A moment of understanding passes, unspoken, and they return their attention to the ballerinas before them.

She persuades the guard to let them stay an extra fifteen minutes, but regretfully not a second longer. They seem reluctant to part, outside on the steps, in spite of the cold, but neither says anything. He sees her into her cab, opens the door for her, and then turns to leave.

"Humphrey!" He turns immediately. She has rolled down the window half way. "'Nights of Caberia,' Thursday, 8:00 PM, Film Forum. Bring snacks. GOOD snacks."

The cab pulls off then. She does not wait for his acknowledgement. She does not have to...he knows it...but cannot put a finger on why her presumptuousness makes him smile.