“Well, I feel like you’re gonna be mad at me if we go.”

“I’m not.”

“But I also feel like you’re gonna be mad at me if we stay, so—”

“Phil, I’m not mad!”

“Well, it feels like you are. Or—were.”

“I’m not mad, Phil,” she said, realizing that she may have sounded mad. And she tried to assure Phil she wasn’t. “I was having fun,” she said almost brightly. “I had fun, skating. Did you?”

Phil wanted to say no. But he didn’t. He just nodded yes.

Phil and Marci had learned, like many educated and successful people, how to not quite tell the truth about their feelings in that way that only educated, successful people know how to do.

“Good,” said Marci, happy that Phil had had fun. She wanted to stroke his hair. Which was so gray now. And thinning on the top. And so cute, she thought. But she didn’t touch him. Because she and Phil hadn’t touched in a while. And the longer you go without touching the person you love—or once loved—the harder it is to touch them. Or be touched by them.

Marci looked again for her other new black waterproof slip-on faux-suede winter shoe.

But still couldn’t find it.

Anywhere.

Phil didn’t know that his wife was having trouble finding her other shoe. But he did know that she was mad. At him. And he thought he knew why. So he tried to defend himself. “I mean, I’m sorry I missed your jump out there—”

“It was a single axel.”

“I’m sorry I missed your single axel jump, and—”

“It’s okay—”

“And I’m sorry I was late getting home tonight—but we’re trying to figure out how to … stay in business. It’s serious, you know.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do,” retorted Phil.

Marci was still looking for her other new black waterproof slip-on faux-suede winter shoe and said, “Phil—I’m not mad at you. You had to stay late. You’ve got a lot goin’ on.”

“I do!”

“I get it.”

Phil was about to say “I don’t think you do” again when Marci preempted him and said, “Phil, where’s my shoe?”

It took Phil a second to process the off-topic question, and asked, “What?”

“Where’s my shoe? I can’t find it.”

“Well…” Phil scanned the area. And saw no sign of Marci’s other shoe. Which was odd. “It’s gotta be here,” he said, puzzled.

“Where is it?!?” Marci asked again, flummoxed.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s black. Like this one.” Marci held up her left foot and showed Phil the new black waterproof slip-on faux-suede winter shoe that was on it. “So it oughta show up in the snow, right?”

“It oughta.” Phil grabbed one of the flashlights he had brought and searched the area for a moment. And then asked, “Is it … buried?”

Phil started kicking at the fresh snow around him to see if Marci’s other shoe would materialize.

And Marci grabbed the Coleman lantern and searched the area around her to see if she could locate her other shoe.