Benny had always been able to tell when Maureen watched him, when they both lived in the loft - the way she'd look at him, head tilted ever so slightly to the side, almost-smile simultaneously innocent and wicked, and even when he wasn't looking at her, he knew.
Now it's a different feeling. Every look she gives him is a resentful glare - in the middle of her protest, across the restaurant. every look is a weapon, an attack. He used to be unsettled, knowing she was watching him. He misses it now, because at least then every look didn't wound him.