She had been strolling around the three mausoleums at the entrance and was now near the circular path along the one farthest from the gate. She smelled her hands. Had she washed them after eating dinner? Hell, they smelled like pizza. She bent down and scrunched them around in the grass, working fingernails under fingernails, flicking out and pushing in and flicking out. There—she put her fingers to her nose—they smelled like a lawnmower. She was as alluring as antifreeze.

What did she think? That they’d grope in a cemetery? Was this about that? It couldn’t be. He was not attractive, God knew, he was not attractive. She should go home. This was a dreadful mistake. Why had she called him?

She sat right down on the ground. Her head ached, and a cramping in the arch of her left foot had begun. She jumped up to step on it, push it out, and then it relaxed, and she slumped back down to reckon with her fantasy and its upcoming reality. Maybe it had been too long. Maybe this part of her life was over. Adam wasn’t going to be the love of anyone’s life. He was a steward. He had run the paper without imagination.

In a minute she saw his headlights. They were perpendicular to the gate. She could say they got their signals crossed. If she stayed here, he couldn’t see her. He might be afraid to call her again on the cell—what if Don had unexpectedly joined her on the walk? Had Adam moved along these centimeters of deception, did he know how to stray? There was also this. It would ratchet his longing, wouldn’t it, if the night didn’t work? The next time would be sweeter. It always was when delayed.

When she looked up, the headlights were gone. The temperature might have dropped a degree or two. Maybe she’d been sweating, and by sitting she’d settled down enough to sense the coolness on her skin. She stood up to peer. No car was in sight. He’d given up. He’d left.

She was flash-sorry. The regret was deep. She rubbed her forehead. She remembered how he’d done just that during her visit to the Room. And look what she’d done—pulled him in to push him away. She didn’t understand herself. She made no sense and was having no fun. She was a mime with a plaid heart, a poodle in a buggy, a vandal in a cemetery, a grown woman playing teenager, and not for much or for keeps. She sure didn’t want to go home. The thought of the front door, the inevitable staircase, the climb up it—

She was sitting on the ground. He moved closer to the gate. He tried it. It was locked. He stood there. What in creation was she doing?