They were preparing lunch, the smell of burnt butter. They were being lazy, eating inside instead of in the courtyard or on the roof terrace. I won’t paint them in a disparaging light: Barbara thought they were okay—the kind of people who could appreciate the Mattotti painting hanging in the dining room. They invited us to take a seat at the table, well lit, perhaps the most well-lit spot in the house, under the skylight. They served American coffee from their automatic drip coffeemaker they’d crammed between the toaster and hot plate on the counter: Barbara seemed annoyed by this clutter. Holding a warm mug, our mug, Barbara looked up at the skylight and murmured, politely: “That stain…”

“Oh, yeah. You noticed?” the woman said. She was braless, in the light sweatshirt she’d slept in.

“I did,” Barbara said, smiling, knowing, from her job, how not to appear angry. She spoke now as if the stain were our fault: “Look, Marcè, it’s grown some,” like this was my fault, though I knew that’s not what she thought.

The stain appeared that winter, before we separated, and the work crew assured us it was gone for good. Now, it was a meter long and, at its broadest, about the width of an LP; a ribbon of paint had peeled away—we’d avoided that before. But our two renters hadn’t let us know about the seepage.

“Yeah, I noticed it, too,” the man said. He was wearing a long cotton cardigan over his pajamas, like a bathrobe.

“Oh, don’t worry, call us whenever, no pressure. If you notice it reaching the walls, call us.” Barbara had pegged them as rich, somewhat dense, accustomed to being served, but now, turning to them, she was trying to make sure they didn’t feel like they’d failed.

Her reaction was no different, proportionately, to how she’d approached Gioia Longo. Before, I would have fixated on her not wanting to share how much seeing that stain upset her. But something had changed between us: I didn’t feel excluded; I wasn’t bothered because she wanted to retreat into herself. I knew she found the stain terrifying, a violation of her most private space, and she knew I only viewed this as a practical concern, something to resolve, not to anguish over.

The man assured us he’d text to keep us up to date: “I’ll send you photos so you can see how it develops.”

“Okay. Am I right you didn’t talk to the workmen? Just so when I call, I’ll know where we’re at.”

“But it’s not like it’s really rained,” the man said.

“True, it hasn’t, really…” Barbara was holding her coffee mug in front of her mouth. She stared at the cabinet beneath the skylight: “We’ll get it figured out. Tomorrow, I’ll come by with the work crew.”