Rather awkwardly, he takes his place behind me again. I think, Let’s see. How many times has this happened? As if I didn’t know the answer. I remember once turning on the television and seeing a panel of women talking about frustrations they had with men. One woman was saying, “They’re never interested when you’re available. But as soon as there’s competition, they’re all over you.”

Is that so, I’d thought, idly licking my finger and running it along the bottom of the bag of Cape Cod potato chips I’d just finished. And then I thought, I wouldn’t know. Well, now I do.

• • •

As I am putting my key into the door, I hear the low sounds of Chip talking to someone. When I walk into the room, I see that he is on the phone. He sees me, says hastily, “Okay, thanks,” and hangs up.

He sits on the sofa, smiles. “I’ve got the whole day planned.”

I set the bag of bagels down. I want to ask him who he was talking to, but instead say, “Feeling better?”

“What do you mean?”

“You were so tired.”

“Oh. Yeah, I am better. Power nap.”

“I see. So. What would you like to do?”

He holds up a list. “First, Harvard Square, some bookstores. Then the science museum, we can sit in the dark and look at the stars. I just got off the phone with them—they have a show starting at three. After that, I don’t know, I guess I’ll need a damn nap. And then dinner. How’s that sound?”

I look down. Nod. Nod again.

• • •

I am just getting ready to wake Chip from his nap to get ready for dinner when I hear him quietly swearing. I put down the book of poems we bought and go into the bedroom. He is sitting at the side of the bed, wet sheets gathered around him. He looks up at me.

“It’s all right,” I say. “I’ll just call down and get some clean ones.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s all right.”

He won’t look at me. I go over to him, kneel at the side of the bed, take his hands between my own. “I know you feel embarrassed, but you don’t have to, Chip. It’s not your fault. It’s no big deal.”

He picks up a glass of water from the bedside table, takes a drink. His hands are shaking.

“Chip?”

He puts the glass back, then pulls me to him. “Myra. I’m scared.”

“I know you are.”

“You’re here, right? I mean, really here.”

“Yes. I’m here.”

He holds me tighter, then lets go. Looks into my face and smiles a smile like nothing I’ve ever seen, that of someone lost inside himself. And then he says, “Is it time to go to the restaurant?”