“You’re laughing at me inwardly.”

My wife, who lives by a code of honesty so brutal that it used to terrify me. And still does. Who told me when we met that she preferred men to be taller and a little better-looking, but that she liked my smile and was in the mood for sex. I made a joke about penis size to cover my confusion. She didn’t laugh.

“The size of your penis is not relevant. Tonight we shall have non-penetrative sex.”

I was crushed, but strangely elated. I could see that Elsa was out of my league, taller than me in her heels and beautiful with it, supple and strong and used to attention.

“Of course,” I said, as though non-penetrative sex made perfect sense, given the imbalance between us.

And oh, the many colors in her dark blond hair, and oh, the jut of her thigh and the warmth in her ice-blue eyes. And later, when we were both breathing hard, naked in her vast wooden bed, our lips almost touching, our eyes locked, she said, “Please don’t circle your thumb on my clitoris in that way, Cal.”

“All right. Just . . .”

“Thank you.” Her voice so soft, her eyes smiling at me.

“Just . . . did I misread something?”

She sat up. “Misread how?”

“I thought you were close.”

“To coming?” She nodded. “If you keep using your thumb in that way I might come, but it will then make me think of a man who used to make me come in that way. And I do not wish to think of that man. Please find another way.”

That night I did not make Elsa come. But in the months that followed I learned how to bring Elsa to orgasm, all fingertips and tongue, in a way that was uniquely mine.

My wife, who cannot tell a lie.

I looked across the top of my glass; Elsa looked back with a level gaze.

“I love you, Elsa.”

Even now I can feel the pause, as her eyes dropped away and lost focus, as the corners of her mouth quivered. It was as if my words had taken her off guard; as if—on this, our wedding anniversary, at this most perfect moment—they were the last thing she was expecting to hear.

“I love you,” I said again.

It was almost as if she were considering her response. Her eyes flicked to the horizon, to the trees beyond the garden in the far hills.

“And I love you too, Cal.” And oh, the warmth in her voice, and the longing. And oh, how it sounded like love. But when her eyes at last met mine there was an emptiness that did not look like love. And yet . . .

“Seventeen years married,” I said.

I took a swig, felt the citrus and the salt as the alcohol warmed me, though the day already was hot.

“Seventeen years.” She knocked her glass hard against mine, drained it half down.