I choose to interpret her requests as deference, not demand. She trusts my taste. She ought to. It’s hard to tell, though, if I’d have placed deference and demand on weighted scales if Nick weren’t here watching. There seems to be something about the extra set of eyes—his particular set of extra eyes—that rattles our resting state, as though we are all engaged in performance art, knowingly or otherwise. Subtle and reckless performance: improvisation directed by our guest, who doubles as an audience of one. There are things we can say without reproach when Nick’s in the room. Other things get cut from the scene. There’s this tone Elizabeth is taking—not just of authority, but of ownership, so resolute—that feels enhanced, amped up for show. Jonah’s reserve reads as swagger when Nick’s around, and somehow, I fetch things. I become not the man of the house, but its manservant. How strange.

Last night, in this very kitchen, we were straightening bow ties and raising martini glasses, preparing to attend a gala honoring me and only me. People sang my praises to thunderous applause. Twelve hours ago, I was giving my wife the best orgasm of her life. I’d like to think my loved ones weren’t just toasting me because the city deemed me special, that Elizabeth would want me even if she wasn’t obligated by matrimony. I’d like to believe we don’t need outside entities to validate our love or worth. We don’t need an audience to be our best.

And yet.

I observe the small adjustments being made on account of our guest. Jonah is setting the table without being asked. He’s setting it because Nick started it, and now Elizabeth is wiping down placemats we hardly ever use. I seem to be the only one immune to Nick’s charms. Charms, like magic. Maybe dark arts, maybe not. Either way, it isn’t cute, even though the table does look nice. Even though my wife and child are intoxicated and delighted. Even though. I feel like the only sober guy at the bar after midnight, watching people feel sexier and smarter and stronger than they are, right before the embarrassments begin.

Elizabeth waves her hand in front of my face and says, “Earth to Robert.”

I blink away the blur.

“Wine, please?” she asks with a smile.

•  •  •

The line at Bella Torta is obscene. I guess no one cooks on Sundays anymore. It takes fifteen minutes just to place my order for one regular pie and one with half sausage and olive, half white with parsley.

“We can only divide white pizzas with other white pizzas,” the cashier tells me.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect.” I lean toward her and say, “My wife can handle sauce.”

“Sir,” she drones on, “we can only divide white pizzas with other white pizzas.”

“I’ll pay extra. That’s fine.”