He stands with his back to the room, gazing out a window glazed with rain, a snifter of fine Scotch gripped tightly in his left hand. I notice the whiteness of his knuckles, the hair curling over them in still-black rococo swirls. He is still angry. He doesn’t know I’m watching him. That fact makes something unfurl warmly in my abdomen--a rush of heat, like a heating pad that warms you from the inside, said…