They were playing Kings Cup, a drinking game with a deck of cards. It was Effie’s idea, a game they’d played in high school, when they could get their hands on beer. Every card drawn had a rule to it—“two is you,” “three is me,” “five up high,” “queens are girls.” They made up most of the rules. If you drew an ace, you had to remove a piece of clothing. Max had come up with this one—and then drew the first ace. But he was only wearing trunks. Effie found this unbearably funny. Clara handed him the afghan, and he draped it over his lap and pulled his trunks off and tossed them to the rug. Effie drew the next one, and removed her engagement ring. (“Sorry, boo,” she said.) There was some debate about whether it counted, but then, later, she drew the next one too, cried, “No!” and, laughing, facing away from them, removed her panties, held them up so Max and Clara could see—Henry laughed uncomfortably, unsure how he felt about this—and tossed them onto the sofa. When Clara drew the last one, she took her sundress off entirely and played the rest of the game in her underwear. She sat to Henry’s right, her legs tucked under her, vast and white and soft as dough, and it was all he could do not to gape at her. He was distracted, he was hot and bothered, getting tipsy in spite of his best efforts, feeling more panicked with every minute that Alma waited for him, wishing at the same time that there was another ace and that Clara would draw it. Desire engendered desire. He wanted to fuck everyone. He was going mad.

Finally it was over, and he led Effie, stumbling drunk, her panties in her fist, up to their bed, where she fell on him in the dark, smothering him, clawing at him, pulling at his shorts. She’d never been this way before. They hadn’t made love in almost a week. She felt soft and round and tender, and he sank into her, and the orgasm was like the sun breaking through clouds.

She groaned into his neck. “That was nice,” she said. And then she was asleep.

The house was dark and quiet. He should have been half dead, but he was wide-awake. It was almost three in the morning. Alma was waiting.

Outside at last, in the black of a cloudy night, he ran down New Hampshire Avenue.