It was a good thing, too: Lately, no matter how hard she tried, Byron was never very pleased with her. Come to think of it, she was never very pleased with him, either. She couldn’t help but imagine that if they lived in the Mickelson house—a place grand enough for their dreams—they would both be much happier. He had gotten angry with her again last night, just because she had suggested that he seemed to prefer the company of Roy Ostrem and sundry Chryslers to her. As she dusted, she reviewed what had happened, trying to make sense of it. First, he had arrived home late from work, wolfed his supper (Chicken à la King and apricot cottage cheese salad; “Great, hon”), and bolted out to the garage, where she found him later seated at his workbench sorting his screws into empty baby food jars.

“So this is what you had to do that was so important?” she had asked him, leaning against the doorjamb. She rarely ventured into the garage unless they were going somewhere in the car. Its plank walls were stained dark; it smelled of oil, earth, and mystery, and felt gloomy despite the light coming in the small windows. The Chrysler hulked in the center of it like a seed about to pop from its pod. “When I’ve been alone all day, waiting for you to come home, and you can’t take an hour to talk to me?”

“I thought you had that quilting thing today,” Byron said, tossing a Phillips head into a creamed spinach jar.

She was annoyed that he’d actually remembered; it was better to be able to get angry with him for forgetting. “Where did you get all the baby food jars?”

“From Roy.” A stout little screw dropped into the former home of puréed peaches.

“I suppose with all his babies he has no shortage.”

“What do you want, Doll?”

She could have screamed. “Nothing, Byron.”

He held up a silver screw. “Wanna screw?” he said, and grinned.

“Don’t be juvenile.” She turned to go back to the house.

“Remember when we used to do it in the car?”

She stopped. “We did not!”

“Came close.”

She looked at him again; he was smiling.

He looked over his shoulder at the parked car. “Want to?”

She couldn’t help that her curiosity was piqued.

“We could go all the way, now,” he said. “And not have to worry.” He stood from the workbench, and reached out for her hand, pulled her inside the garage and shut the door. He pulled her close and kissed her. She felt her heart quicken, and savored the clean smell of his skin.

He unbuttoned her dress and slipped his hand inside. “Remember,” he said, “how much I used to want you?”

“How much you—?”

He was unbuttoning her dress the rest of the way.

“Used to? Byron?”