She asked if I had any concerns. Many, I wanted to say as I put the sleeping Sophie back in her stroller. “No concerns,” I said.

“Well, then, there’s just one other matter to discuss.”

“Okay,” I said, forcing myself to make eye contact.

“I have only one rule, and it’s not negotiable.”

“Not negotiable, I understand.”

Anna used a wipe to clean her hands. “We’ll do anything and everything,” she said. She crumpled the wipe into a ball. “But I only kiss my husband.”

“Okay, sure.”

How come in that moment Anna suddenly became all mouth? A Giant Mouth.

“I hope that’s not a problem for you.”

“Why would it be?”

I only kiss my husband. This, I quickly rationalized, was a good thing. It meant that for both Anna and me, our spouses were, and would always be, our priority.

Truth be told, my latest Anna Brody fantasies were exclusively about kissing. I had made elaborate plans.

Anna must have sensed my disappointment. “Are you sure it’s not a problem?”

“Believe me. Not a problem.”

After Anna left, pushing Sophie in her stroller, I stayed behind because I needed to think. Tim the Realist had expected Anna to cancel. But now the Weekend was more real than ever. Noble Tim felt great for having forgotten about it. Pissed Tim hooked up with Insulted Tim and began to rant on behalf of Ashamed Tim and Tim with Petty Thoughts: Who ever said there had to be a Weekend? Maybe I’m not interested anymore. Maybe I used you, Anna Brody, to light a fire under my ass to finish my dissertation! Maybe I don’t want you and your complicated life filled with soft landings! Spiteful Tim began to chime in. Maybe I won’t even show up. Maybe I’ll go to the movies. Maybe I’ll cuddle up with my wife, renew my wedding vows. Then Pragmatic Tim seized control of the moment. This all may be beside the point. Let’s not forget, friends. There hasn’t been a Third Sign!

In that spirit my many selves and I walked home.

“It’s been a weird afternoon,” Kate called out from the kitchen.

“You’re telling me,” I said, heading toward her and the smell of baking cookies.

“You want to go first or can I?”

“You, please,” I said.

“Phone rings,” she said, spatula-ing the last of the peanut butter cookies off the baking sheet. “It’s a headhunter calling. She specializes in nonprofits. She’s gotten my name from that Wall Street Journal reporter and wonders if I’m looking for work. ‘Maybe—possibly—yes,’ I say.”

“That’s not weird. It’s wonderful.”

“Here comes the weird part. The phone rings again. Guess who it is?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Jeff Slade. Calling from the coast. He has big news, he says, and a proposition. Honey, please eat a cookie. They’re warm and chewy.”