One night they both needed different things of a similar kind; she, solace; he, to be consoled. So after a wine-deepened dinner when they arrived at their house seperately in the same car, each already had been failing the other with what seemed an unbearable delay of what felt due. What solace meant to her was being understood so well you'd give it to her before she asked. To him, consolation was a network of agreements: say what you will as long as you acknowledge what I mean. In the bedroom they undressed and dressed and got into bed. The silence was what fills a tunnel after a locomotive passes through. Days later the one most needy finally spoke. "What's on TV tonight?" he said this time, and she answered, and they were okay again. Each, forever, would remember the failure to give solace, the failure to be consoled. And many, many future nights would find them turning to their respective sides of the bed, terribly awake and twisting up the covers, or, just as likely, moving closer and sleeping forgetfully the night long.