She will not. She will not move, not go on, not go back to the Americans with whom she practices German grammar in the Munich school and who will board the airplane with her with the low whistle at take-off and drink over-sweet red wine getting sick in the missile-sized airplane lav going back to her college back home, back to the dark third-floor classroom where she tries to keep up the language living off-campus with friends who play bridge and borrow their boyfriends' cars, one of whom she will marry even though he wasn't hers at the start but his ex her friend said -- not in a viola voice, not in a voice for stories -- it's too late now she said in flat American, it's done with you can have him. He will have a hairy back and fill the space completely and she will close her eyes when he is there only feeling his back with her hands listening for sounds of her friend who is not yet his ex and who is out with his car getting ice cream. She will listen for sounds of the car as he presses her against the kitchen table, the wall, the edge of a cupboard, a bowl of fruit moved to a chair.