As the station wagon made a right turn in front of him, Vronsky revved the engine of his red Ducati Monster, lost in thought. It was now his turn to make a left onto the road leading to Staugas Farms, where Anna stabled her horses. There were no other cars waiting, so he idled for a moment, unsure of what to do.

You’re going to look like a total swimfan showing up at a horse farm on a ten-thousand-dollar motorcycle. Everyone knows her there and you can’t show up expecting no one will notice. What are you gonna say if you run into her? “Hi there. I just stopped by because I missed your face”? Don’t do this. Don’t be this guy. You hate this guy. You’re the guy who hooks up with this guy’s girlfriend. You’re the guy who sleeps with this guy’s girlfriend and then his sister.

You’re also the guy … who needs to be where she is …

Vronsky gunned the engine and turned left. It was as if the hands of fate punched the throttle, willing him toward his destination. Two minutes later he pulled into Staugas Farms and parked his bike between two Range Rovers. When he took off his helmet, he ran both hands through his hair a few times, took a deep breath, and headed to the stables.

It had been five years since he had ridden a horse and being back around them made Vronsky realize he didn’t miss it one bit. There were only two things that had ever appealed to him about riding: the nobility and magnificence of the horses, and the attraction he felt toward the girls who rode them. He found everything else abhorrent. He hated the smell, didn’t like the mud, and it turned out he didn’t like the look he got from the extremely tall stable hand when he asked if Anna K. was back from her lesson.

“Who wants to know?” He sneered. “I’m not allowed to just give information out about our clientele to any pretty boy who walks in off the street.” The guy spoke with an exaggerated slang that sounded false to Vronsky. On further glance, Vronsky was pretty sure the guy in front of him wasn’t that much older than himself, even though he towered over him and had the facial hair of someone much older.

“I’m a friend of hers,” Vronsky said. He now fully regretted not going straight ahead at the four-way stop when he’d had the chance. “From the city.”

“Oh, am I supposed to be impressed? You coming to the country from the big bad city?”

Now Vronsky knew the guy was taking the piss out of him, and he wasn’t amused by it. “Look, dude, my Uncle is Richard D. on Pear Lane. He plays golf with Mr. Staugas. Like every week.”