This was our last cab stop in a day of calculated pleasures. The joys were all intended to be lucky. We’d seen our Vermeers at the Met; we had different favorites but understood each other’s reasoning and today the arguing came gentle and felt as close-in as those interiors with their sleepy perfect afternoon women. We taxied to the Morgan Library and studied nine of their best Rembrandt drawings. “How could he do so much in such a fraction of a second with single reed-pen? I wouldn’t even ask that my work be better,” she said, “Just faster.”

“You were always pretty fast.”

“Up yours with a Quickie,” and we laughed our sore, sweet hardened laughs and got in a final cab to head toward finding out.

Robert was out of town again on another glamour junket with the Hip Quartet and he said he would “take care of things, make my own appointment, in my own time.” Prima donna. Did he now believe his own publicity? There are only two kinds of people in the world: positive and negative. Whatever. That was up to him. For my meddling and much else, as for helping him, it seemed too late. I told myself I’d learned everything I could from Robert. I told myself the rest’d just be disappointment.

She would have her blood test today. Then there’d be an eternity. The two-week wait. I was glad to find they had at least dispensed with those huge blocks of client-number lumber! I said I’d lurk out here in the lobby. A black woman all in white walked over and smiled at us, asked Alabama, “You’re ‘fifty-four’?”

“Hasn’t she aged gracefully?” I said. No one laughed. “Sorry. Nerves.”

“And would your husband like to come in, too?”

“Yes, Hub prob would.” Bam winked. So I settled in for the speech I’d learned through my phone research. My palms were soaked, I kept blotting them on chinos. I continually grinned, feeling sick, as if I had forgotten something. “Have you been … ?” the woman asked me a second time.

“Been … ?”

“Tested.”

“No, but I didn’t … Probably should know, shouldn’t I? Funny I didn’t make an appointment for myself. But … we’ve …” I pointed to Ms. Byrnes. “I mean, not lately …”

“Typical male pig thing, hun?” Alabama confided to our counselor. “Double standard or what? Drags me in here. Takes no responsibility for himself.”

“Sir? Mutuality really is the beginning of …” but Angie interrupted, “Yeah, Hubby Sir, thanks a lot for joining your little wife in this. Two’s company. I mean you are not exactly keeping it in your pants now, are you Mr. Slut at the St. Mark’s Baths? And he only likes the very very young boys, that’s what’s really been hardest.”

Our watchful interviewer, concerned, sensing either turmoil or a possible joke, whipped out a second form.

“Do I understand that you two have an … open relationship?”