“You’re mad at me,” she says. “How can you be mad at me?”

“I’m sorry. Jesus Christ. It’s my fault.”

She shakes her head, staring at me. “Now what?”

“I’m too hungry,” I say. “I can’t make any big decisions.”

“What the hell happened to your face?” she says.

Outside, I pick up the roasting pan out of a pile of leaves. Lynn comes up beside me and puts the chicken back in it, and we shovel up the vegetables and carry everything over to the garbage and throw it all away, even the cracked enamel pot. Whiskey is already there at the fence, meowing and sniffing around.

“Go on, Whiskey,” I say. “Not for you.”

“Make sure the lid’s on tight,” she says to me. “I don’t want to clean this up a second time from some raccoon.”

LET’S SAY, FOR the sake of something, that I never loved her, that what we have here is a housing arrangement, with scenes of nude touching, that we joined for this comfort, that it’s missing some key element of normal love. It’s not normal, it’s more like high-school love, or freshman-year-in-college kind of love, the kind you’re glad to stick with as long as it doesn’t interfere, as long as it doesn’t start ruining your life. The very, very flawed kind. That’s my idea of love, actually, those endless first two weeks, early on, when all you care about is love.

We get a pizza. We pay the man. We eat the salad she picked and lie on the rug in the living room, eating pizza, watching TV, together on the floor. We have no furniture—we aren’t there yet. The vibe between us is two people very tired and in shock, but amiable. I put some cream on my face. The welt on my hand throbs. I’d rather have pizza anyway; chicken sucks. I love her. Who else would accept me in this condition?

I should say I’ll make dinner tomorrow night.

“I can make dinner tomorrow night.”

“You gonna make some chicken?” she says.

“White Christmas lasagna,” I say. “With spinach and salad and bread.”

“Sounds good,” she says. “Move over,” sliding toward me. She slings her leg over both of mine, sticking her face in my neck. “This way,” she says, and I move to accommodate her. I can feel Lynn’s warm, clean breath on my skin. What a feeling, from one person to another.

“I don’t understand anything,” she says. Her eyes close. Her breath slows.