“Well, tonight,” I started, slowly, trying to make it up as I went along. But I suddenly went blank. “What is tonight anyway?”

Donald’s face fell. “It’s Monday.”

“Of course. Monday.”

“The Smithsonian class, right?” he prompted.

“Right.”

He looked at me, pushed the chicken away. “You’re not taking a class at the Smithsonian, are you?”

I froze, completely flummoxed.

“Come on,” he said, “tell me the truth. You’re not taking a class, or going to some stupid book club at the bookstore, or doing any of the things you keep telling me you’re doing every night.”

“I’m not?” I was finally getting busted. He knew about my spying activities, my drive-bys, my bizarre behavior. It was all, finally, going to come crashing down.

“No. You’re not.”

“Then what am I doing?” I said. And I really did want to know. Somehow, I needed him to articulate and explain (as if anyone could, really) my self-generated self-destruction.

“You’re having an affair,” he said, matter-of-factly, as if he’d given it a great deal of painful thought. He smoothed the cloth napkin next to his plate back and forth with his hand. His face looked drawn and worried, and I realized that he’d lost weight.

Out of relief and glee at having been spared the humiliation of getting unmasked, I laughed out loud. “An affair!” More relief and glee; more nervous laughter. “Of course I’m not having an affair! What on earth would make you think that?”

“What on earth would make me think that? What on earth would make me think anything other than that? I mean, Elise, I barely ever see you anymore. You’re never home. You’re out every night, under extremely flimsy pretenses. When you are here you’re distant. I feel like we’re growing further and further apart every day.” He stopped and shook his head. “I miss you. I miss talking to you. Complaining to you. Seeing your outrage on my behalf. I feel like you don’t love me anymore.”

He took his glasses off and set them down on the table, and for the first time I saw how troubled his eyes were, how sad. For a moment, I was unable to breathe. I missed him terribly, suddenly; wished I could run to him, hold onto him for dear life; stop the madness I was perpetuating. But I couldn’t, because the other crazy part of me wanted to lash out and accuse him of having an affair, of falling out of love with me and in love with Adrienne. I clammed up. Hurling those sorts of accusations would only make him deny them; if I tried to back them up with bits and pieces from my spying expeditions, I would expose myself as the lunatic fiancée he was absolutely justified in jilting. My head swam; my mouth went dry. I forced myself to say something.