He took it the way a man takes a coat that is being handed to him.

Then he hugged me.

He put his arms around me from the side while I was pouring coffee, and I stood there and let him, and over his shoulder I looked at a bakery bag on my father’s kitchen counter.

And he smelled of two things.

Cologne, which I had bought him at Christmas.

And underneath it, unmistakably, that flat sweetish chemical smell of the alcohol wipes you get in a foil sachet.

I made a small joke about the almond pastries and I put my coffee down and I said I needed to shower, and I went upstairs and locked the bathroom door and sat on the edge of the bath with a towel against my mouth for about four minutes.