She lay down again, toking Davonte Gold’s very strong weed, and reached out to feel the surface of the satiny bedspread with her exquisitely sensitive fingertips. It had been quilted in a diamond pattern with a strong thread that looked like fishing line, and Marianne wondered how this bedspread, which was the same as the bedspreads in all the other rooms, had been chosen, and how long ago that was, and how often it had been washed. It was a bedspread that had been made to last a very long time, and she suddenly appreciated its sturdy ugliness. Marianne lay still and concentrated on feeling its deep seams beneath her legs, her back, her shoulders. On the ceiling was a stain that no one had bothered to spackle or paint over. It looked like a bear slumped over a trash can it was eating from. Marianne could see its black bear mouth and black bear nose.

How long did she have, if she wanted the things Eric had so rashly and unfairly accused her of not wanting? Two years? Five? Seven—a very, very generous seven years? Certainly if she turned forty and continued to live alone in underfurnished apartments or semiabandoned converted motel rooms, she would have a harder time finding someone who would pledge his troth to her. That was a long time from now, and also a short time. It would be here any minute! Marianne thought, and she smoked the joint down to her fingers. How terrible it was, and how soon. She had known men, on the other hand, who amassed very few goods or skills or real estate and nevertheless managed to marry and procreate long after they were forty. Eric could restart his career a half dozen more times, could lose his hair and get paunchy, and someone would still find it feasible to start a life with him.