Seated in the leatherette armchair opposite Clint, Paul Montpelier had that day worn a white sweater vest and pleated pants. He sat in a hunch with an ankle over his knee, hanging onto his dress shoe with one hand as he spoke. Clint had seen him park a candy-red sports car in the lot outside the lowslung office building. Working high up the food chain of the coal industry had made it possible for him to buy a car like that, but his long, careworn face reminded Clint of the Beagle Boys, who used to bedevil Scrooge McDuck in the old comic strips.

“My wife says—well, not in so many words, but, you know, the meaning is clear. The, uh, subtext. She wants me to let it go. Let my sexual ambition go.” He jerked his chin upward.

Clint followed his gaze. There was a fan rotating on the ceiling. If Montpelier sent his sexual ambition up there, it was going to get cut off.

“Let’s back up, Paul. How did the subject come up between you and your wife in the first place? Where did this start?”

“I had an affair. That was the precipitating incident. And Rhoda—my wife—kicked me out! I explained it wasn’t about her, it was about—I had a need, you know? Men have needs women do not always understand.” Montpelier rolled his head around on his neck. He made a frustrated hiss. “I don’t want to get divorced! There’s a part of me that feels like she’s the one who needs to come to terms with this. With me.”

The man’s sadness and desperation were real, and Clint could imagine the pain brought on by his sudden displacement—living out of a suitcase, eating watery omelets by himself in a diner. It wasn’t clinical depression, but it was significant, and deserving of respect and care even though he might have brought the situation on himself.

Montpelier leaned over his growing stomach. “Let’s be frank. I’m pushing fifty here, Dr. Norcross. My best sex days are already gone. I gave those up for her. Surrendered them to her. I changed diapers. I drove to all the games and competitions and built up the college funds. I checked every box on the questionnaire of marriage. So why can’t we come to some sort of agreement here? Why does it have to be so terrible and divisive?”

Clint hadn’t replied, just waited.

“Last week, I was at Miranda’s. She’s the woman I’ve been sleeping with. We did it in the kitchen. We did it in her bedroom. We almost managed a third time in the shower. I was happy as heck! Endorphins! And then I went home, and we had a good family dinner, and played Scrabble, and everyone else felt great, too! Where is the problem? It’s a manufactured problem, is what I think. Why can’t I have some freedom here? Is it too much to ask? Is it so outrageous?”

For a few seconds no one spoke. Montpelier regarded Clint. Good words swam and darted around in Clint’s head like tadpoles. They would be easy enough to catch, but he still held back.