The morning table set for two, on it a small bouquet of mixed flowers. He's reading
from Spinoza: "All ideas, insofar as they are related to God, are true." The sun shines
through the window but it is January, the house is a thin shell against the bitterness
around it. The sun is strange, immaculate, abstract. "Ah," he gestures approvingly,
"Plato again." She nods, pitying him. His is the kind of intelligence that brings neither
joy nor sadness, but longing, yes. They drink their coffees. The soft-boiled eggs are
perfect. The dog is taking her morning nap under the table. "Insofar as we are
human," she says, "we cannot fail to make ourselves misunderstood to God."