When they were finished, they lay next to each other, Jaya’s head tucked under Keith’s arm, her leg sprawled across his. There was such simple pleasure in feeling his bare skin against hers. Their lovemaking sessions at home had to be strategic and expeditious, while the kids were watching TV or after they had gone to sleep. It had begun to feel more like another activity that needed to be scheduled than the impromptu desire-fueled bouts of their early relationship.

At this moment, Jaya felt utterly content, knowing she and Keith could still be lovers as they’d once been, that those parts of them had merely been buried under domestic detritus, not extinguished by its weight. The rough patch they’d endured last year with the financial market collapse had been difficult, but they’d survived. Keith was calmer and happier now that things had settled down. Jaya traced circles on Keith’s bare chest. “We should get your sister a really nice gift for doing this.”

“Yes, so she visits again soon.” He kissed her and glanced at the clock. “I made a reservation for dinner, but it’s not till 7:30. You want to go down to the bar for a drink?”

“Seems fitting.” She reached up and kissed him on the mouth, and he responded with a hunger that surprised her. They made love again, more briskly and rougher this time, unconcerned about the rhythmic banging of the headboard against the wall. Afterwards, they took a shower, soaping each other’s backs and laughing about how decadent it was to stand under the hot water with no interruptions or deadlines.

* * *

Jaya had first met Keith in a London pub on a warm Friday evening in September 1990, where they had both gone after work for drinks with colleagues. She was surprised by the tall, sandy-haired man who sat on the stool next to her and took a long drink from his pint glass, draining nearly half of it before placing it on the table. He smiled at Jaya’s widened eyes. “Long week,” he said in a flattened American accent.

Jaya smiled, noticing the beginnings of his five o’clock shadow. “What do you do?” she said, intrigued by the crisp suit that accentuated his square shoulders, so unlike the men with whom she worked at the think tank, in their rumpled tweed blazers with elbow patches.

“I work at Canary Wharf,” he said.

Jaya smiled and glanced up at the ceiling for a moment, as if deliberating. “Hmm.” She raised an index finger. “Real estate, perhaps?” When he shook his head, she said, “Financial services?”

He grinned. “Clever girl.” Jaya found herself annoyed that he’d called her a girl but pleased at the descriptor. She saw her colleague Anja, across the table, throw her head back and laugh heartily at something one of Keith’s friends said.

“Can I get you another?” Keith asked, standing from his barstool and draining the last third of his pint glass. He gestured to Jaya’s glass, still half full.