“What can I give you? What do you want? I’ll give you anything.” He knew this wasn’t true. He was being reckless.

“Just don’t be with her,” she said. “If you’re with me, don’t be with her too.”

“How can I do that?”

“I don’t know. Say you’re sick. Say you’re not in the mood. Just don’t be with her.”

“Alma, you have to be reasonable…”

“Don’t be with her, Henry, or else don’t touch me again. You were fawning over each other today—right in front of me, mocking me.”

“That’s not true.”

“You were. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? It drove me crazy, Henry. And then I have to sit here for four hours and imagine you fucking her, and I can’t stand it. You’re mine. Right now, you’re mine, Henry. You’re not hers.”

To his amazement, there were tears in her eyes. He was gobsmacked. It took him a moment to collect himself. “Are you asking me to leave her?”

She wiped her eyes with a finger. “No,” she said, and sighed. “I don’t know. I’m crazy—I know I am.”

A wave of tenderness spread through him. He took hold of her arms. “Alma, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I love you.” He ran his hand over her hair. “I won’t be with her,” he said, not thinking of what he was saying, nevertheless sincere, “I won’t be with her. It’s just you, it’s only you. Alma, I love you.” He pulled her to him and kissed her, until eventually she uncrossed her arms and held him. “I love you,” he said again, “I love you,” and then: “Alma, do you hear? Do you love me too?”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“Tell me.”

“I love you.”

“Tell me again.”

“I love you, Henry.”