Two thousand miles separated her from Vincent, the one she had so very recently—although it no longer seemed recent—united with. June saw no hope of returning. She had planned to—booked tickets, imagined the reunion, the lips and hands and the feel of his skin, her house, her bed, his house, his bed, her space, their space, the future, their theoretical future. Falling in love even, it was possible. Before the "accident." But since she was here for the duration, she might as well take a lover.