Elizabeth picks Lemongrass. Wouldn’t have been my first choice, not even my second, but I’m a man of my word, so Thai it is.

Our server seats us on the patio and tells us we’ve chosen the perfect evening to dine al fresco, because tonight is a full moon, but tomorrow it’s supposed to rain again, so we’d better enjoy it while it lasts. We came here to eat, not to study lunar cycles, but he is correct. The night is lovely, and the food is very good, some of it great, even. Their tom yum is perfect, their pad kee mao spectacular, and these basil martinis are downright dangerous. Somewhere between cocktails one- and two-too-many, Elizabeth catches a feeling.

“I do love you,” she tells me, lazy-like.

“Me too.”

“You do?”

“Of course,” I say. “Don’t be strange.”

“But you’re a good man, Robert.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth.” I wave to a server. “Can we get some waters over here, please?”

“You don’t think I’m a bad person?” Elizabeth asks me.

“No.”

“I’m afraid I might be.”

“That’s ridiculous. Of course I don’t think you’re a bad person. I think you’re a wonderful person. You’re my wife.”

“Plenty of people marry terrible people.”

“Well, you’re not terrible. You’ve made mistakes. I’m sure you’ve done bad things.” I pick up my fork, put it back down, say, “Maybe even terrible things. Elizabeth, those things don’t have to define you. Do you know what I mean?”

She shrugs. Her glassy eyes reflect candlelight.

“All that matters is what you do next,” I say. “We have to put the bad things behind us so we can move on and be better. Right? That’s the best we can hope for once the damage is done.”

Elizabeth seemed to be listening intently, but now I’m unclear as to whether she was listening at all, or whether she’s sleeping with her eyes open, or if she’s just very interested in the planters crammed next to our table, because she hasn’t taken her eyes off them for a minute at least. Turns out it was the latter, after all, because when a busboy comes by with two waters, Elizabeth asks him, “Are those begonias?”

He scans the red flowers, leafy vines, ornamental glass balls, and concrete urns, trying to decide which of these is most likely to be a begonia. “You know,” he bluffs, “I do believe so. Let me check with a manager, just to be sure.” He returns minutes later to confirm that yes, they are begonias, and a stoic Elizabeth nods and thanks him.

“Sometimes I think we made a mistake,” she tells me, and although I’d like to think she’s talking about restaurant choices or season tickets, I know she means us, and it kills me. “Do you think that?”

“Never.”