He started to create the contours of my body. He worked fast, but precise. For twenty minutes I stood there, following the movement of his arm with my...eyes. After those twenty minutes, Mr. Monet threw away his paintbrush. He looked at me, twitching his head as a way of summoning me. I walked towards him, around the easel, and looked at his work. It was the most impressive painting. It seemed to consist of only one smooth line, as if he had never taken the brush off of the canvas. It was. The Facebook updates about their daughter’s lives were given the same rapt attention. She talked about her friends, and the movies they had seen and the books they had read. They were friendly and cordial and even occasionally mildly affectionate to each other in the same passionless vein as before. It seemed obvious that that they were on their way back to the very casual relationship that Jon had been so ready to give up on before. On Sunday morning they weighed in. He had lost four pounds. More

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