“How long have you been here?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Let’s get another round.”

“You get it. I’m going outside,” I said.

The noise and the air-conditioning and the crowd were too much for me. I could feel tears already burning my eyes. I found an empty picnic table on the patio. This corner near the building was dark, away from the streetlights. Finally Michael stumbled outside, carrying two whiskeys. He sat across from me on the opposite bench and took a cigarette from my pack. I lit it for him. I’d rarely seen him smoke. I lit one for myself, too.

“Charlotte, we have to talk,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Something happened.”

He looked at me strangely. “How’d you know?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

I wanted him to see that I was upset and put his arms around me, but he was too drunk, he wasn’t paying attention. He took a deep breath, looked away from me.

“I saw Sonja,” he said.

“So what.” Sonja was his ex. I knew she worked at the art supply store and lived nearby. I saw her around the neighborhood sometimes, too. I didn’t care about her or whatever gossip she had told him. Danielle was dead. Who gave a fuck about Sonja?

“We . . .” he started and stopped. “Charlotte, I’m sorry,” he tried again. “You know I love you. I respect you. I know this isn’t fair.”

“What isn’t?” I said slowly.

“I slept with her,” he said.

I thought of Sonja’s long red hair, her pale freckled arms. I’d always thought she was way prettier than me.

“I didn’t plan it,” he said. “It just sort of happened.”

I couldn’t think properly. I felt stunned, slow. I was glad we were outside in the dark. I didn’t want him to see my face while he was saying these things.

“I ran into her at a show. At Rudyard’s. We got to talking and it was like—like old times, I guess. Charlotte, I’m really sorry.”

A question occurred to me. “When?” I said. “When did you sleep with her?”

“It was like a month ago.”

“Jesus, Michael.”

“I know, I know, I should have told you earlier.”

“You should have told me? You should have never done it!”

“I know, you’re right.”

“Just that one time?”

“Well . . .”

“You’ve been fucking her for a month? How many times?”

“I don’t see why that matters.”

“Where? At her place?”

He shrugged, miserably.

“Oh, at your place? In your bed? Where I’ve slept, like hundreds of times?”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Are you going to see her again?” I said.

“I’m not explaining this very well,” Michael said.

“Then explain it better,” I said.

“I’m going back with her. We’re back together. I can’t see you anymore.”

I felt the words before I understood their meaning. It was a physical feeling, a dizziness and a pain in my stomach. I flinched.

“You’re great,” he was saying. “You’ll find someone, I know you will. Don’t take it personally, okay?”