Lewis’s house was a modern nothing, a block and wood tract-­style home in Westwater, Nevada, with dreadful orange carpeting and plastic woodgrain ac­cessories. The living room was furnished with a television on a wheeled stand, a pile of mismatched pillows, and a torn Naugahyde couch. A Formica table, covered by a green plastic tablecloth with Nevada dust ground into its quasi-­seersucker peb­bling and set with a plastic napkin holder and wilted napkins, stood in the corner of the kitchen. Every­thing in the kitchen was either harvest gold or avoca­do green. Everything in the house looked as if it had been bought at a grocery store—including the bed­room furniture.

Lewis showed me his backyard, his barbecue, his toolshed. He smiled at me as we toured the house, bare walls shining down on us, like he was introducing his old mistress to his new one with expectations that they would coexist in harmony, adding pleasure upon value to his days. I had an odd feeling that I had already become one of Lewis’s possessions, and that feeling was frighteningly pleasurable.

I showered while Lewis called to have our dinner delivered, then he showered while I changed the bed linen and explored the house. The refrigerator held four cans of beer, an almost-­empty bottle of Tabasco sauce, a bite of fuzzy cheese in the corner of a milky plastic bag, and two sprouting potatoes. I began to make a list.

That night, we unpacked, ate, and went to bed early. Lewis stretched out next to me on his bed, then reached for me. I snuggled into a comfortable posi­tion, and we lay together while he talked of how good it was to be home, how nice it was to have a nest, unfeathered though it might currently be. Before drifting off to sleep, he talked of plans to improve it, styles of furniture, colors of paint, equity and a next-­step-­up neighborhood when this house had ap­preciated enough.

As he talked, I realized I had been wrong in thinking I wanted to find a home and settle down.

The next morning was Sunday. We read the paper in bed, then went grocery shopping at the corner market.

The trip to the grocery store stands out in my mind because for the first time I can remember, another person and I engaged in childlike play that was so much fun and so funny that I giggled uncon­trollably, tears running down my cheeks. We threw groceries to each other, raced the carts, took turns pushing each other, mocked the other shoppers, read ingredients to each other with much drama, and were intentionally silly, incredibly silly, for the better part of an hour.