Now Frances sat on a straight chair. In a matter of hours it would be dark, and she expected company for supper. In her cool, half-lit living-room, she waited, ruminating.

When Frances was born, she had had a disorder. Her face had hung strangely, and still did slightly to this day. She had a low eye. Her mouth sagged to one side. The disorder was named after a Belgian doctor, and with it came problems. But fortunately, when Frances was nineteen years old, a young man named Martin French appeared. Martin was a stranger to the town, and so everyone avoided him suspiciously, though he had such a light, smooth air that folks soon forgot themselves and wound up flocking to Martin French after all. As a professional businessman, he inspired respect throughout town, finally; and the newcomer’s eyes squinted in such a way when he smiled that he created a sensation—especially with Frances’ mother, who told him about electrolysis for the first time in his life.

Martin and Frances met outside the post-office toilet, and there discovered a shy sense of camaraderie. They saw a potential together, and began to keep company. But Frances worried how Martin perceived her. Finally, during a dinner date at the Cove restaurant, she asked, “Martin, what about my face?”

“That’s how you are. It doesn’t affect me,” Martin said, chewing his dinner. Frances smiled to herself, sensing the remark was portentous. Something would come of her friendship with Martin French, she was sure.

When they were married it seemed almost a lark, or, for Frances, a chance to see if everything wouldn’t turn out right in life after all. And for a month or two, things were effortless, indeed—just like Martin’s smile—requiring so little effort that, in fact, life became featureless to the point that now the period was rather unrememberable. Yet it was not hard to recall the awful thing that happened. In their small apartment at the edge of the beach wall, Frances began to notice that Martin ate large numbers of figs, then later grew gruff and explosive; this became a pattern. And the heart-lifting feeling—the feeling of being saved, which Frances experienced a few months before —disappeared; instead, she sensed a sleek escarpment right next to her. One night, Martin asked her to play a distasteful game, and she refused. On yet another night, he lay pillows on the floor for her to walk upon, as a signal that she should only know softness in life. Frances wondered about the marriage. Sometimes when Martin toweled off near the bathtub, knees bent, arms stretching downward, he seemed feminine, with his diminutive hands and feet. Yet he was unreachably manly as well, protected by the tough barriers of his skin and nose.

Frances had begun to discover the quiet adventure in knowing another human being, and with this came the desire to flee.