“Barb. It’s not a big deal. Buy another one. You don’t have to get so upset all the time.”

“I’m not upset. I’m stating a fact.”

“I’m sorry,” he said in that condescending way that really meant, I’m sorry you’re being so petty, and I’m sorry I have to deal with this, and I’m sorry you don’t realize I’m the most wonderful thing in the known world.

I’m not sure when I started picturing widowhood as my happy alternative. John was healthy, but he was a man. He played golf. Weren’t there lightning strikes on golf courses? He drove down to the city to see Sadie, and you know how those New York drivers are.

It wasn’t that I wanted him to die. I just didn’t want to be married anymore.

“I think there’s something called divorce,” Caro said one blissful night when John had decided to stay over in the city (on the pullout couch in Sadie’s apartment, pretending to be twenty again, it seemed. We could afford a hotel room, after all).

I sighed. “We’ve been married for fifty years almost, don’t you know. Do people get divorced after that long?”

“Yes, but between now and your death—let’s say twenty-five more years—how do you want your life to be?” she said, taking a sip of her margarita. She had a point.

I thought for a moment. “Exactly the same, minus him.”

I’d already done some research. We were comfortable because of John’s work, but he never made partner. Too unambitious, too friendly to move up in the world. If we got a divorce, both of us would take a hit financially, which I told Caro. “I love this house and everything in it. I don’t want to have to move in with Juliet or live in some three-family house in New London and worry about paying my bills.” Caro had divorced long ago. But she had family money, and she’d gone back to school and become a public relations consultant and made a real good income. Real good.

She nodded slowly. “So . . . I guess we have to murder him.” She flashed her beautiful smile. “Or . . . or what? Is there any chance you can make things better? It’s not like he’s a horrible man.”

“No, he’s not horrible.”

“Trying to get along again would probably be better than murder or divorce.”

“Probably.” I smiled, but the thought made my shoulders sag. Another task for me to do. You could bet John’s friends weren’t telling him to be a more loving husband.

“As I tell my clients, fake it till you make it. You never know. If you pretend to be in love, maybe you’ll fall back in love again. So much of happiness is the habit of positivity.” Another sunny smile.