I had a fleeting fantasy of catching him off guard: I would tell him that I’d seen him at Adrienne’s, demand an explanation. Then I would throw something (a matzo ball; a stuffed cabbage roll; a pickle) at his head, leave the restaurant; my dignity and self-respect intact. But when I imagined the moment that his face would fall, his voice crack—the moment when he would say all the things I dreaded most (You’re right. I’m so sorry. . . . Adrienne and I still have feelings for each other. . . . I don’t think I can go through with the wedding. . . . It’s probably for the best. . . . I never ever meant to hurt you), when he would tell me, finally, as I always feared he would, that he was leaving me for her—I realized suddenly that I was entirely unprepared. Though nothing at all had happened yet—I had said nothing; he had said nothing; I didn’t even know, really, what (if anything) was going on between them—I felt stricken. Everything was quiet; the air was thin; I could barely breathe.

Outside the bubble of my doomsday scenario, life went on: conversation continued, silverware scraped against plates. Gayle and Donald talked, ate, wiped their mouths with napkins. Minutes passed. The check came; Donald paid it. They stood, put on their coats, stared at me, still sitting, not moving.

“Honey?” Donald said.

I swallowed.

The dangerous moment had passed.

Disaster had been (temporarily) averted; life remained (temporarily) unaltered. Had I not scared myself silly, I would have wept.

Donald put his arm around me; walked me to my car; folded me into it. Gayle walked on the other side of Donald, who insisted on taking Gayle back to Georgetown. I should go straight home, he said; he’d return in fifteen minutes.

But by the time he arrived, I was in bed, overcome by the kind of fatigue deep fear and panic leave behind. I stripped off my clothes; crawled under the covers. I couldn’t face myself; Donald; what I had done; where he had been; what we each might say.

Chapter 23

23

I slept fitfully; awoke after nine in the morning completely exhausted. Donald had left for work by then, and there was a note on the night table beside me. For a second or two I hesitated: Could it be . . . ? But it wasn’t. Just a few harmless lines telling me he was sorry about the fight we’d had the day before, and that he looked forward to having dinner with me that evening.

I rolled over; burrowed my head into the pillows; tried to figure out why I felt so lousy. And then it came to me:

I felt hung over.

In the aftermath of the previous day’s activities (surveillance, surveillance, surveillance) and excesses (fear, anxiety, suspiciousness, paranoia), I was tense. And something else, too—in need of a fix:

Hair of the dog.