She took up my hand and squeezed. “How about some lunch?”

“That’s a great idea, seems like you’re feeling better.”

“I’m afraid that’s just the part of me that still doesn’t believe it.” She laughed and the sound filled my entire body. I felt then she was going to live for many years after my death, and I wondered if this moment would be one she returned to often in memory.

After eating something we tried to watch a film. When it was over, I thought about mentioning that weekend at our cottage, the dinner when her childhood neighbor and his ex-wife interrupted, but decided to leave the evening as it was, intact, sealed off from this new, abridged version of our marriage.

“There’s some time yet before I go into the hospice. We might have a few good months if you want us to travel.”

“Hospice?”

“It’s like a hotel, but there’s no set checkout time.”

“Oh, Max,” she said. “I know what hospice is.”

“It’s actually in a part of the hospital, I can just call it that if you’d prefer.”

She nodded weakly. “I’m going to leave work so I can be with you every second.”

“Actually, I think you should keep your job, and go every day as usual.” It was something I had already thought about. “Because you’ll need work after it’s happened as a distraction.”

Hadley stood and left the room without saying where she was going. After a minute though, I heard her in the bathroom, vomiting up the soup and sandwiches we had ordered for lunch.

In the early part of the afternoon, when I felt Hadley was able to focus on what I was saying, I told her about Carol and the progress I’d made during our sessions. I also confessed how much comfort I had found from a new friend, an anesthesiologist fellow I met outside Carol’s office.

I explained how we’d been going for walks in the park. Though I tried not to let my enthusiasm for this new relationship overtake the moment, which belonged to Hadley.

After that, we lay on the bed again. Let ourselves be distracted by other things in our lives, even laughing once or twice.

Unexpectedly, we made love.

Then lay touching⁠—so still as to feel the day beginning to exhale. People in the buildings around us were putting on coats to catch trains from Grand Central, or have a drink somewhere familiar before heading home. But we were at home in bed because I had only a short time left to live.

It actually felt as though time had stopped and we were porcelain figures with painted eyes and painted mouths, unmoved by the daily sweep of light, held in place by the weight of intimacy, locked into an eternal moment that would only end when we ceased to perceive it.