Nico was making coffee. The bright Florida sunshine of a new day illuminated the white-and-sea foam green of my hotel room, glinting off the small kitchenette, where she was trying to be quiet. I was happy to see the sounds were coming from her making coffee, and not from her trying to slip out, that morning after ritual of "I'll call you," of slipping on enough clothes to carry your shoes and bag and whatever else out th...