“It was your problem for years. And anyway, I’m not asking for permission.” She dabbed at her lip with her napkin. But she was asking for permission. He knew she was. It was one of the things they’d agreed upon when they got together, that their life would be private. That because of his past, they would both have to carefully consider whom they allowed into their fold. Of course, back then, she didn’t know the extent of his peccadilloes; she was too enamored with him to think over what she was giving up.

They sat in silence, her eyes narrowing on the food she was pushing around her plate. “I know you don’t care.” She spat out the last part. “But I already bought the tickets. We’re leaving in March. I haven’t booked a return yet. I’m just going to be staying at my parents’. It shouldn’t be too hard to find me if you want to track me down.” She glared at him again, brown eyes reproachful, then turned away, eyed the rest of the diners. Her profile was pinched, vacant. She looked tired, like the air had been pumped out of her. How long had she been like that?

They’d gotten a good table, tucked in a corner away from the madding crowd toward the front. He could tell she felt isolated. And he had isolated her, in the general sense, away from her family, her hometown. He knew this. But she had also wanted estrangement; she wanted to purge herself of her old life, her old face. Nothing he had done to her had been by force.

He paid the check, walked her out of the restaurant, called an Uber. He had a driver for the mornings, but he enjoyed the anonymity of his evenings, not having anyone, not even someone on his payroll, know his whereabouts. His wife complained about that, of course. Said that it made her feel unsafe to wait around for a cab or car service. She’d never really gotten used to the city, even after years here, still used Google Maps to navigate some streets, still gave homeless people change. Still refused to take the subway. He would smirk at all of that, his little small-town girl.

He could pinpoint the moment that the light sort of dimmed from her eyes, when she realized that this life she had lusted after wasn’t exactly to her liking, that his obsession with work had excluded her. It was when she was pregnant the first time, when she expected him to dote on her, before she knew better. They’d been sitting in the house watching TV, her stomach sweaty, veined and swollen, unclean and grotesque to him, like an uninvited, unkempt guest. Which he supposed the baby was.