When the four of us got together—me and Donald, Adrienne and Terrance—he just got quiet. Pensive. Sometimes a little testy. The morning we had them to brunch, for instance, while Adrienne was telling us about the afternoon of Rollerblading through Rock Creek Park they’d had the day before, I caught him staring into his bagel (toasted onion with the merest schmear of low-fat cream cheese and Nova) so intently that I wondered if he expected his face to somehow be reflected in it.

When I nudged him with my elbow, he looked cross.

“What?” he said, staring at me.

I smiled tensely. “Nothing. I just—”

“You just what?”

“I just—you seemed distracted.” I glanced over at Adrienne and Terrance, for support. Holding hands, they smiled politely, then tightened their grip.

They were no help. I sensed Donald bristling. Was it my comment, or their interwoven hands?

“I’m not distracted. I’m just eating,” he said.

I nodded. “Okay. Sorry.”

It was my comment.

Evidently trying to find a constructive way to pass the time while Donald and I hashed out our little problem, Terrance looked at Adrienne, swooned, then covered their already intertwined hands with his other hand. Crossing her legs, she gazed up at him, expertly managing to catch Donald’s eye along the way.

Donald bristled again, pushed his plate away. He’d barely touched his bagel.

It was their hands.

Later, after they’d left, and we were in the kitchen cleaning up, it started.

“I feel fat,” Donald said, running his hands over the usual suspects: hips, abdomen, stomach, chest. “I shouldn’t have eaten that bagel.”

“But you didn’t eat that bagel. I don’t think you even took one bite of it.” I shut the water off, dried my hands on a dish towel, regarded him from across the room.

He was inconsolable.

“What is it?” I said.

He slumped into a chair at the table. “I’m just anxious.”

“Anxious about what?”

“I feel like everything’s out of control. My weight. The kids at school. Our wedding.”

“What about our wedding?” I wondered, suddenly, if this was the moment he was going to tell me he didn’t want to get married after all.

“I keep thinking we’re forgetting something. You’re sure all the deposits are in?”

I nodded slowly. I had no idea where this was coming from, or where it was going. “Donald—is there something else?” I asked. But he kept his eyes down, wouldn’t look at me.

“Everything’s just annoying me lately. For instance, Ron, this seventh-grade teacher, saw me getting out of my car the other morning and made fun of me all day.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘I see you took the family station wagon today.’ ”

I waited; asked if there was more. There wasn’t.

“He’s just jealous,” I said.

“Of what?”

“Your car.”

“I don’t think so.”