“You read my mind.” I grab a plain Perrier, move to the table, take a seat, flip through today’s stack of mail: business envelopes, pointless catalogs, fundraising materials that cost more to print and post than most donors are willing to give. Between bills, there’s a pale blue envelope addressed to Elizabeth, torn open down one side. I flip it over to read the embossed return address.

“What did you get from the Parkses?” I ask.

“Oh, Luna sent us her copy of the paper, the one with our picture.”

I open a piece of newsprint that’s been folded carefully so as to avoid creasing our faces. In the margin, in broad, loopy letters, Luna has written, Brava! Come see us soon, would you? Painfully predictable.

Elizabeth rests a hand on my shoulder. “I should get in touch with that photographer to get those other pictures.”

“Sure.” Elizabeth traces a line from the nook of my neck down to the C7 vertebrae. My skin tingles. Without planning to, I say, “I’ve been a stress case lately. I shouldn’t let it get to me. I should never take it out on you.”

She draws maps on my shoulders for a few lazy moments before accepting my apology. “Already forgotten.” Then she kisses the top of my head, and off she goes to the bar, commencing our evening ritual of cocktails and small talk before dinner and bed. Our routine wasn’t always so steady. We used to go for long lazy walks, sometimes drives. We’d go out: cocktail parties, dinners, jaunts to the city for gallery openings or the odd performance. Pina Bausch for Elizabeth, Mamet plays for me. I’ve enabled predictability, equal parts boring and reliable: fertile ground for sneaking around.

So I say, “Want to take a walk? It’s such a nice night.”

She glances over her shoulder. “Now?”

“Why not?”

She examines the glass in which she’s already poured two fingers of Scotch and drinks it down without ice or water, screws the cap back onto the bottle, and leaves her empty glass on the bar. “Let’s go.”