They gazed at the fire and sipped their drinks. Her presence electrified him. He was overly conscious of himself, of how he rested his arms on his lap, of whether or not he should cross his legs. The whiskey helped. After a while he cleared his throat and asked if she had any more of her brother’s cigarettes, and she said of course, and reached into the pocket of her cardigan. She handed him one, took one for herself, and lit them both with the Zippo. He moved the ashtray to the edge of the coffee table, where they could both reach.

“How long do you think the lights are going to be out?” she asked.

“Who knows,” he said. “Some poor fellow’s probably out there now trying to fix it.”

“I bet no one is. I bet no one even realizes what’s happened until the spring.”

“You’re probably right.”

She took a drag from her cigarette and for a while seemed mesmerized by the fire.

“I can tell you’re not having a lot of fun here,” he said.

She looked over her shoulder at him, frowning. “Are you telling me I’m a drag?”

He hastened to say no, that wasn’t what he meant, but she was only kidding. She had to stretch her arm out and roll to her side to reach the ashtray, and as she did so she struck a flamboyant pose: one leg extended straight over the armrest, toes pointed toward the fire, the other bent in front of her, heel tucked into her groin.

“You must be enjoying yourself,” she said. “You’re on your honeymoon.”

She was bobbing her leg and smiling at him. He couldn’t look her in the eyes for very long. “We’re having a great time.”

“You look nice together,” she said. “You and your wife.”

“We make a pair.”

“I loved what you said the other day, on the boat—what was it?” She looked up to the rafters as if to find it written there, and a little ember came alight inside of him.

“What did I say?”

“You said it was like a stroke of genius, when you realized you had feelings for her. Because you’d known her all your life.”

He was astonished that she’d been paying attention to him at all, even more that she’d loved something he’d said, and the fond way she was looking at him made him shiver. He thanked her, and she laughed at that, and then she started saying something about music—it was related, somehow, to what he’d said—but he was only partially listening. He nodded agreeably. She was sitting up straight now, facing him, her legs tucked underneath her, and when the topic seemed to have run its course, and her attention began to drift back to the fire, he said, “Truth be told, I didn’t really care for Effie growing up.”