She told her therapist she could not figure him out. Some weeks he was everything she had ever wanted. He texted her good morning. He called her on his way home from work. He made reservations at restaurants she had mentioned wanting to try. He looked at her across the table with an intensity that made her feel like the only woman in the world. And then, without warning, without explanation, he would recede. The texts would slow to once a day, then once every three days. The calls would stop. The plans would become vague. She would spend a week in quiet agony, wondering what she had done wrong, before he would eventually reappear with warmth and affection and no real explanation for the silence. He was busy, he said. He had a lot on his plate. She was overthinking it.