Our afternoons were spent looking through the window onto a driveway covered in wet leaves. It seems now that this is all we did, every day, for the entire time we lived in that house. Surely there must have been more. I suppose we worked, one or both of us, for how else did we make money? And not every day could have had rain, and not every season has leaves on the ground. And yet, however hard I try, I can’t conjure an image other than the two of us at that window. We’re talking, sometimes, but mostly just sitting, side by side, serene, watching over the leaves.