“But I must offer you some tea. I’d feel bad if I didn’t, after you helped me.”

“You’re very trusting.”

“I noticed you looking at the books just now. No burglar or lunatic would do that.”

“Your boy is a great-looking kid.”

“He’s doing well. His girlfriend’s pregnant.”

“Really? How wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Adam will be back for the birth, I know he will.”

I went upstairs to the bathroom. Coming out, I noticed my study door was open. The books I’d been using before I left were piled on the coffee table, next to the CDs I’d bought but not yet played. I couldn’t resist sitting down at my desk. I looked at the photographs of my children at various ages. I knew where everything was, though my hands were bigger and my arms longer than before. The ink in my favorite fountain pen still flowed. I wrote a few words and shoved the paper in my pocket. I had to tear myself away.

When I returned, I sat beside Margot and poured the tea. I glanced at the wedding ring I’d bought her and said, “Where are you from?”

“Me? You’re asking me?” she said. “Do you want to know?”

“Why not?”

“No one’s much interested in women of my age.”

When she told me where she was born, and a little about her parents, I asked other questions about her early life and upbringing. I followed what occurred to me, listening and prompting.

I had heard some of this before, in the years when we were getting to know each other. I had not, though, asked her about it for a long time. How many times can you have the “same” conversation? But the past was no more inert than the present: there were different tones, angles, details. She mentioned people I’d never heard of; she talked about a lover she’d cared for more than she’d previously admitted.

Her story made more sense to me now, or I was able to let more of it in. We drank tea and wine. She was stimulated by my interest, and amazed by how much there was to tell. She wanted to speak; I wanted to listen.

I asked only about her life before she met me. When my name arose and she did speak about me a little, I didn’t follow it up. I wish I’d had the guts to listen to every word—my life judged by my wife, a summing-up. But it would have disturbed me too much.

How she moved me! Listening to her didn’t tell me why I loved her, only that I did love her. I wanted to offer her all that I’d neglected to give in the past few years. How withdrawn and insulated I’d been! It would be different when I returned as myself.