Henry smokes after sex (Lucky Strikes, not Gauloises). It's a sixties cliché but it works because he does it so effortlessly. He reaches for his gray Jil Sander low waist jeans on the floor, puts them on and gets up, then stands there by the window for minutes, silently looking out as if the world was coming to an end.
I hold my breath while I watch him from the bed, his naked back a perfect silver screen for the pale morning shadows in his room. I ask him about the new year, he says it's just an excuse to start over if you have a lot of regrets. "Do you", I ask but he doesn't answer.
It's a long way home across Brooklyn Bridge in the cold winter sunlight. My clothes smell of his smoke and Acqua di Giò and it's a déjà vu, a picture you've already seen but forgot about and I think it's the way it feels when things are about to start over.