Oblivious. Or maybe an open ear, monitoring the room. Yes, probably that, so just an impression of oblivion. I don’t stop myself; I bury my nose in the junction of her neck and shoulder, dry and downy, and inhale the sweet perfume of clean. One eye opens, staring, not at me, but across the room, awaiting what’s next. Tense, a little pissed, resigned. Enduring attention, for now, deciding whether to move on and settle down elsewhere, unmolested.