Glasses on the endtable beside the untouched scotch.  There is
England. In books.  In his head.  London.  Oxford.  The train.  It
hardly seems like missing her.  Like leaving.  More like fitting back
into place, book on shelf, never to be re-opened.   He talks of new
beginnings.  An easy lie.  He doesn't care to begin again. In
beginnings he has everything, everyone.  Love and purpose, Ethan and
Eros, Jenny and joy. Buffy and...  Bedlam.  He's murdered again.
Reason enough.  Fingers brush the glasses and the glass.  Clarity or
obscurity? Neither.  Just home and quiet and perhaps, at last, an end.