The flat is loud in the way a flat is loud at one in the morning: the fridge, the pipes, the city under the window.
"You can stop looking at the photographs,"
Humphrey says from the doorway, and he does not come in.
"They are still going to be there tomorrow and so am I, and I would rather have the argument now than at breakfast."
He puts the keys in the bowl, takes his jacket off, and stands with it over his arm like a man waiting to be told which room to be in. The monitor behind him is still on, and the gallery still has forty pictures in it.