Phylida. If there was any way on earth for me to make her happy, make her laugh, make her feel better, I would find it. But I didn’t love her. Not a little. Nothing. I didn’t not love her. This had nothing to do with love. This was a life arrangement, for all time. What could that mean? Being married forever, living in timeless eternity. Not a joyous eternity, not that basketball-shaped baloney with no ends—slice and slice and there’s still a ton left—but the other eternity of Christian-fundamentalist kooks, floating around dead in a pink nightie with a dopey look on your face and a gold banjo, trying to be good.

Happiness. Half penis. I didn’t have the slightest interest in fooling around.

I pushed Phylida off me. She looked up, smiling, trying to keep the mood upbeat. Her red mouth, her beautiful face. I would’ve liked to chop my dick off and fling it from the balcony. “It’s not gonna work,” I said.

“Don’t get hysterical.”

“It happened last week. That’s twice in a row.”

“It happens to you every time we try to have sex away from home.” That placid look, that flat-lipped smile. She touched her lips. Her eyelashes were like a foot long. They flapped through the air. Her eyes sparkled so wet and clear and blue like the soaring heart of Bob’s tumescent sky groaning with sunlight outside our windows that I had to stop looking or die. Why do married people have to live together in our society? Why can’t they get houses next door to each other, shoot semen through the window? Why did she like to kick me in her sleep? Why did I feel like strangling her flutelike pinkish throat when she did?

I said, “I fucked you in Mexico.”

“You fucked me in Mexico.”

“Right.”

“Don’t get all penis-focused.”

“Could we not talk about it and make me feel even worse?”

“You’re thinking about getting married, our life together. You’re worried about eternity.”

“I’m not thinking about anything.”

“You’re still my hero. I believe in you.”

“Oh Christ.”

“I’m trying to help.”

I stood, wearing just my underwear, and walked to the bathroom.

“You’re rushing. You’re tired.”

“Thank you.”

“You have a wedgie.”

The bathroom had a full set of amenities in a wicker basket packed in tissue paper. French soap in a plastic case, English shampoo, a thing to shine shoes. I felt humiliated. A highly detailed advertisement for blackheads stared back at me. I ran some water. I heard her speaking to someone about her outfit for tonight. “It’s blue and it has an A line.” I couldn’t hear what else she said. She giggled.

“What’s so funny?”