Maria caught the bus to Georgetown.

As her salary had improved over the years she had moved apartments, always to a larger place in the same neighborhood. She had got rid of all but one of the photos of President Kennedy during her last move. Her current place had a comfortable feel. Where George had always had rectilinear modern furniture and plain decor, Maria liked patterned fabrics and curved lines and lots of cushions.

Her gray cat Loopy came to greet her, as always, and rubbed her head against Maria’s leg. Julius, the boy cat, was more aloof: he would show up later.

She set the table and washed the salad and grated the Parmesan cheese. Then she took a shower and put on a cotton summer dress in her favorite shade, turquoise. She thought about putting on lipstick and decided not to.

The evening news on TV was mostly speculation. Nixon had had a meeting with Vice President Gerald Ford, who might be president tomorrow. Press secretary Ziegler had announced to the White House reporters that the president would address the nation at nine, then had left the press briefing room without answering questions on what he would speak about.

George arrived at seven thirty, wearing slacks and loafers and a blue chambray shirt open at the neck. Maria tossed the salad and put the pasta in boiling water while he opened a bottle of Chianti.

Her bedroom door was open, and George looked inside. “No shrine,” he said.

“I threw away most of the photographs.”

They sat at her small dining table to eat.

They had been friends for thirteen years, and each had seen the other in the depths of despair. Each had had one overwhelming lover who had gone: Verena Marquand to the Black Panthers, President Kennedy into the hereafter. In different ways, both George and Maria had been left. They shared so much that they were comfortable together.

Maria said: “The heart is a map of the world, did you know that?”

“I don’t even know what it means,” he said.

“I saw a medieval map once. It showed the earth as a flat disc with Jerusalem in the center. Rome was bigger than Africa, and America was not even shown, of course. The heart is that kind of map. The self is in the middle and everything else is out of proportion. You draw the friends of your youth large, then later it’s impossible to rescale them when other more important people need to be added. Anyone who has done you wrong is shown too big, and so is anyone you loved.”

“Okay, I get it, but . . .”

“I’ve thrown out my photos of Jack Kennedy. But he will always be drawn too large on the map in my heart. That’s all I mean.”

After dinner they washed up, then sat on a large soft couch in front of the TV with the last of the wine. The cats went to sleep on the rug.