A new couple has moved into apartment 4 D. That is to say, they've got the movers to come in and dump their two dozen cartons on the floor. They haven't opened them yet - it's too cold - they've turned on the heating but it'll be a while before the room is warm enough for them to unpack. The cartons lie scattered about, each cardboard box a small private god to be knelt before and worshipped.
They have only been married a week, so there is no furniture.
It feels like there is something they could be doing in the meantime, but they are not sure what. They sit there, in their gloves and caps and winter coats, wondering why it is that they can find nothing to talk about, when this is what they've been planning for, all this while. They tell themselves it's just that they're tired after their long drive. They tell themselves it'll be better tomorrow.
And they remember to feel relieved, thinking their boxes have arrived safely. While unknown to them something has broken, and the stain of it will be on everything.
It is two weeks before they get the curtains up. Two weeks in which they pretend to be bashful of strangers when it is really each other they are embarassed by.
When he turns off the light tonight, she says nothing. He's right, she thinks. Best to stay in the dark a little longer.