The gist of the story is that the man catches his flight, gets home to his wife, makes mad, passionate love to her, and remains to this day a Happily Married Man. He’s never told his wife, feels no remorse, has absolutely no desire to cheat again, and to top it off, he’s certain the whole experience made him an even better husband.

Genius.

When the Newcomer finished his story, all of the men spoke up at the same time. “Bullshit!” “Didn’t happen.” “Too good to be true.”

Pause, then the Newcomer: “Oh, it happened.”

Dan the Bear: “How do you know?”

The Newcomer said nothing but smiled smugly.

The Weasel: “Oh my God. You are that guy?”

Me: “It’s not our business.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

But clearly, he was that guy.

“I’m neither confirming nor denying!”

Me, practically shouting: “Waitress, check, please!”

Here’s what I learned that drunken night: The only difference between me and those other men was that I had an opportunity with Anna Brody that they’d never have, a once-in-a-lifetime chance most of them would never pass up, except for maybe the Newcomer. But he’d already had an Anna Brody moment of his own. Most important, I learned that not only was it possible to pull off the Weekend, it very likely could make me a better, more loving husband and also improve things at home. My upcoming Weekend with Anna Brody was the kind of sacrifice I was willing to make.

I was drunk enough that I almost had myself convinced.

KATE

KATE

MAYBE IF THE FIRST THING HE SAID THAT MORNING HADN’T BEEN “I PULLED AN all-nighter,” I would’ve been kinder. But this was his third report in as many days. The previous two were “Wow, I got in six hours” and “I typed so much I can’t even move my fingers.” On those mornings I managed a “Good” and a mildly enthusiastic “Oh, honey, how great.” Now it felt as if he was expecting me to burst into applause.

When Tim first started on the history of loss, I was eager to help. I read every word he wrote. And I think I weathered well the theme shifts, the new approaches, and the complete rethinkings. But as the years went by, I began to wonder if I was helping. My interest seemed to make him tense. Which made me tense. So I tried to detach, deciding that I didn’t know anything, and I didn’t want to know anything. Better, then, to ask nothing and eventually, hopefully, be pleasantly surprised.

But that morning I worried we were headed toward the all too familiar place of last-second panic. “I pulled another all-nighter,” he said, looking especially tired and frazzled. “And I was on fire!” As he protested too much, an old fear of mine came rushing back: Tim won’t ever finish.