“Have you read my book?” Eric asked suddenly. He couldn’t help it—it was a question that seemed to ask itself.

“Have I read Copper Creek?” Regina hefted her formidable handbag from the floor and plucked a copy—hardcover—from the side pocket. It was like a glimpse of lacy bra, a flash of panties. He was helpless. She shyly slid his novel toward him. “I was hoping to get your autograph.”

In her room, Marianne waited for the sound of Eric’s door opening and closing, and kept peeking through her window to see lamplight in his window. But his window was dark when she peeked, and dark when she peeked again, five minutes later. This was the time of day when Marianne was supposed to be writing poems; her black notebook was waiting on the bureau. She had not opened it in days; her only recent writing, other than work emails and memos, had been unreturned texts and emails to Ruth.

She wanted to talk to him about his date—that’s what she would call it, teasingly—with the prim, capitalist Regina. Where had they gone, and what had they talked about? Had Davonte stuck to his diet? No carbs, she’d specified, though Regina had invited them to an Italian place. No carbs and no dessert. Nothing fried. Eric had seemed preoccupied, changing his shirt twice until he finally decided on a pale blue button-down, khaki pants, and the blazer he’d let her borrow on the beach. You look like your brother, she’d said, reaching to brush a scrap of bloody tissue from his face. He’d looked at her like she’d slapped him.

She’d make it up to him, when he got back. She would walk right across the courtyard and knock on his door; she’d lounge across one of the beds in Eric’s room and ask him to tell her about his whole day—the afternoon workshop, the dinner, the drive back from the restaurant with Davonte. She wouldn’t say, as she often did, hurry up, get on with it. She’d listen.

Marianne put on her favorite dress, wispy silk in flattering peacock blue, and dangling silver earrings. She put up her hair the same way Regina wore hers, but it wouldn’t stay, so she took it down again, dabbed on lip gloss and powder. On the beach trip, with Ruth, they’d found a 1970s marriage guide called Loving Him Best, and they’d cracked each other up with the sexist advice, taking turns reading to each other in serious voices. “Look as attractive as possible when he comes home,” Ruth intoned. “What if this is the best I can do?” Marianne had said, clutching her beach-frazzled locks in mock despair. “What if this is all I’ve got?” And Ruth had howled.