Seema busies herself in the kitchen, transferring the food she’s brought—takeout from Pakwan, Bill’s favorites: lamb saag, achaar chicken, and naan—into serving bowls. She doesn’t turn at the familiar tread of Bill’s steps down the stairs, not even when she senses him directly behind her in the dining room.

“I could smell the food the minute you entered,” he says, standing by the table, pouring out wine. She’d parked in the driveway so as not to announce her arrival: the garage door creates a racket when it winches up.

He hands her a wineglass, kissing her lightly on the cheek. He hasn’t changed much in the two months since she’s last seen him. He’s even wearing his favorite tan sweater, which he may have worn the day she left. One difference—he’s back to wearing glasses, like the very first time she saw him, looking more like a professor than the lawyer he is. She sips the wine, glancing around the kitchen and dining room for other signs of change. Everything is preserved the way she remembers. She’s sure she’ll find little changed in the rest of the house too.

As if by unspoken consent, they slip into familiar routines. Seema sets the table, while Bill reheats the food in the microwave. They help themselves to the naan and curries and raise their glasses in a silent toast. They bend their conversation to safe topics—the literal fog enveloping their home, the metaphoric fog blanketing the country.

“I didn’t miss the fog here one bit,” Seema says. She’s been subletting in fog-free Mission.

The other fog has been harder to avoid. The drama over the Affordable Care Act—the Democratic Party’s plan to extend health insurance to the uninsured, a signature priority of President Obama’s first year in office—has dominated news cycles for the last six months. She lets Bill hold forth about it: Bill works at an insurance company as in-house counsel and is privy to the latest insider information regarding the wheeling and dealing happening in Washington.

“He’ll get it done, see if he won’t,” Bill says.

Seema has less faith. The opposition seems to have already won. Obama has ceded too much—both to insurance companies and to his political rivals—without a fight; what’s left may perhaps not be worth having at all. But she doesn’t want tonight to devolve into another argument about this. That’s not what she’s here for.

“Bill—” she says, interrupting him, holding the wine to her nose, inhaling, letting the fumes flood her brain in a dizzying rush. She sets the glass down and extends her hand toward him.

He stops talking, pats his lips with his napkin with extra care, his hand evading hers. “You’re right,” he says. “I don’t think this is going to work.”