If there is a brief surge of satisfaction from his refusal to go, it has no opportunity to either resolve or form fully. Instead it catches high in her chest and hangs there, a hook to secure her in place. There is no divorcing herself from this section of space.

The pan is clutched tight between her arm and side, mittened hands tucked about its curved edge. But it doesn't really matter what her hands do, does it? He's out of reach.

"I remember."