Henry remembers a brown-haired woman rolled up in crumpled bedsheets like a cannolo, looking up at him lovingly as he stands up – fresh cigarette burning in his hand. He's stark naked, but she doesn't seem to care; she couldn't have been older than eighteen at the time. Henry has fewer lines on his forehead – he was in love back then, foolishly. He also smiles back at her, taking a drag, and leaning against the window sill of their small bedroom. The curtains are drawn, so no one will catch a glimpse of Henry Tomasino's bare ass. They don't converse; in fact, the early days of their matrimony are wordless – it's a marriage that is mostly spent in the bedroom. Outside, they behave almost like close cousins or brother and sister. That's the way it is.