“Sir, don’t touch the plate. It’s very hot,” June said, as she delivered Raymond’s platter of crackling meat and vegetables. She positioned the plate with an oven mitten.

Raymond moved the platter, getting it lined up in front of him. “Yow!” he yelled.

“She warned you,” said Raf.

“Yeah, Raymond, that’s why Raf kept his gloves on for the meal,” I said.

Raymond dunked his hand in his ice-water glass. He said, “You’re bein’ real cute, Raf, but there’s something we all should be saying.”

Raf got busy cutting his food—all of it—down to morsels. He didn’t eat, but carpentered his food with fork and knife, sawing and dividing.

As he worked, I said, “Well, Raymond’s right, of course.”

“You’re this way now, Raf, but you keep buggin’ out on her.”

“Raymond, I better do this,” I said.

Raf was slicing his baby carrots into paper-thin slivers.

“It’s agony being your wife,” I said.

A waiter interrupted to ask if we needed more coffee. Raf tinked his coffee saucer with his knife, nodded yes.

“Acting on impulse,” I said, “and with no sense of responsibility . . . it’s fun for a while. But it’s not too practical, or considerate, and it gets to be . . .”

“When the years start adding up and the wisdom doesn’t,” Raymond said.

“Well, there I disagree,” I said. “The years have nothing to do with it.”

“I didn’t mean you’re old, Paige. I meant our health is going.”

“I’m in great health!” I said.

“I didn’t mean your health. I meant Raf’s.”

I said, “But that’s Raf’s concern. That’s not what I’m arguing. Not like, grow up and get healthy.”

“No, never that!” Raymond said. “Like to see the day either one of you grows up and acts your goddamn age.”

“Look, Raf can act any way he wants, do whatever he wants. But he can’t expect me to hang around in the margins of his life ready with aspirin and checkbook,” I said.

“He’s gonna die of it,” Raymond said. “If you cared about him like I do, you’d want him to knock it off.”

“That’s his decision to make,” I said.

“You expect him to make a decision. Look at him!”

We looked at Raf. He had a plate of confetti food and a knife in his left glove, a fork in his right. He blinked back at us, as if he hadn’t been paying much attention.

“Raf,” I said. “When you next go wildcatting or on some chase, hold it in mind that I won’t be around when it’s over. I’ll be off doing what I need to do.”

“But you already did,” Raf said. “You fucked Raymond.”

“None of your business,” I said, and Raymond growled in exasperation.