2b.

H. lay awake on the sofabed, listening to footsteps pattering in the next room. It was eleven-thirty at night. He reached for his glasses, which lay on the floor next to the arm of the sofabed, and balanced them on the bridge of his nose before sitting upright, blinking a few times, and sleepily sighing. The pattering continued, and now that he concentrated he could hear drifts of what sounded like Mozart coming faintly through the walls.

He stood up and walked to the door of L.'s bedroom. "Shouldn't you be asleep?" he asked in a low voice through the door. There was no answer, and he knocked softly.

The door opened three inches and L.'s face peered through, strands of straight brown hair falling over her eyes, and her breath slightly quicker than normal. "Yes?" she asked.

"Aren't you tired?" H. asked.

"I'm learning to waltz," L. responded, clumsily brushing hair away from her nose and mouth.

"Can't you do that in the morning?"

"I'm afraid not." The door shut suddenly, and after a few moments the Mozart and the pattering resumed. H. sat at the dining room table and opened the copy of The Metamorphosis that sat in the circular glow of the light from the lamp.