“I really like the picture. It’s peaceful,” she said, then stood and began readying herself. I said nothing and watched her dress, silently scrutinizing her choices, turning suspicious as she pulled on my favorite pair of her jeans, which were faded and tight and made her ass look spectacular. She threw on a nice sweater, then pulled the rubber band from her hair and brushed it in the mirror.

“Why are you getting dolled up?” I asked, and even I could hear the accusatory tone in my voice.

“I’m not,” she said, slipping her feet into her shoes, tying them, throwing on her jacket. “Are you going to go write?”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, I’ll see you in an hour or two then.”

I looked at the clock. It read 5:20. “So you’ll be home by seven?”

“I should be.”

“What do you mean, you should be? Either you will or you won’t.”

“Stratton, I’ll be back before you know it.” She came over and kissed me on the lips. I didn’t kiss her back. “You should go write.”

“How are you getting there?”

“The train.”

I could feel myself sneering, my face tight and warm. “Are you going to sleep together?” I asked, which was stupidly impulsive but I couldn’t help it. I had to ask even though her answer was obvious. My foolish pride ached for reassurance.

“Ugh,” she said impatiently. “No, Stratton. I’m getting my things and talking very briefly. I’ll be back in two hours.”

“Firstly, just a minute ago, you said it would take one hour. Now you’re saying two. Secondly, you were supposed to have gotten them when we were there weeks ago.”

“Yeah, I know, but it was a little hard to think clearly at the time, okay?”

“It takes a half hour to get there, a half hour to get back. What the hell are you guys going to talk about for a full hour?”

“I don’t know, okay? I’m not the one wanting to talk.”

“But you’re the one going.”

She shook her head. “I have to go so I can get this over with. I don’t want to do it, either.”

“So don’t, then.”

“Stratton, please stop. I won’t be gone long.”