Then, I’d run errands, go to the post office, cleaner’s, pick up food for dinner. I’d make calls from the house to wedding vendors; or on my cell phone to Gayle, or to Donald’s voicemail at school to check in, say hello. But soon even these obligatory normalcies turned into excuses for more surveillance: after stopping inside quickly and checking my email, I would check Donald’s; after going through that day’s pile of magazines and mail, I would go through Donald’s desk; after making the bed, I would examine all of Donald’s clothes, check the pockets for receipts, inspect the collars for lipstick, sniff for Annick Goutal.

In the evenings, the routine, though slightly altered, continued. I would tell Donald I was taking a class, or going to a bookstore reading, or meeting Gayle for a drink or for dinner, or in need of (yet another) trip to Neiman’s to inspect their (potential wedding) shoe selection. Then I would jump in the car, don my cap and scarf, readjust the visors and mirrors, and drive off into the evening up Connecticut toward Morrison Street. Only now that Adrienne would be, could be, home from work, I had to be more careful not to be seen.

Some nights on those surveillance excursions, I would find her car parked, as expected, in front of her house; sometimes Terrance’s white Subaru wagon, too. And when I did, I would drive past a second time, sometimes a third time, to assess the situation, get an accurate picture of what she was doing (once, for example, I saw her through the window on the left side of the house, standing in the kitchen, by the sink; another time she and Terrance were clearly visible, talking, through the living room windows). Then, I would park down the street under that huge oak tree and wait for something to happen, checking my rearview and side mirrors almost constantly, for some sort of activity.

Occasionally, my vigilance and patience (unmitigated madness) would be rewarded: I would see her, still in her work clothes, taking files and books out of her car, a shopping bag out of the trunk. Or I might catch a glimpse of her slipping out the back door, having changed into jeans and a sweater, with an armful of newspapers for the recycling bin; or heading out in her tight black Lycra bodysuit for an evening run. Sometimes I would follow her through the streets as she ran, mapping her route; sometimes I would just wait in the car until she returned (I liked to make sure she returned before leaving my post for the night).