“This is it,” I say, when I see her. “I just didn’t know it was this fancy.”

“You better hang onto her,” my friend says.

“Yeah. Maybe so. Well, thanks for the ride, Bobby. Let me give you some on the gas.”

“Get outa here,” he says.

I start pulling five dollars out of my billfold, but my friend leans across me and opens the door. “Get your butt outa here,” he says. “Put that money back up.”

“Hell, Bobby,” I say. “It’s a long way out here.”

“I may need a ride from you sometime.”

“You better take it.”

“Go on. I’ll see you later.”

I get out, sticking the money back in my billfold, waving to my friend backing out of the driveway. The headlights retreat, swords of light through the motes of dust that hang and fall until he swings out and grabs low and peels away with a faint stench and high squeal of rubber. I listen to him hit the gears, to the little barks of rubber until he is gone. For a moment I wonder what I’m doing here. On another man’s concrete. Another man’s ride. Everything about this house is elegant. It’s hard to believe this woman comes out of this place. But there she is, opening the door. I go up to her. She kisses me.

“Come on in,” she says.

It’s a dream room. High, vaulted ceilings, enclosed beams. Rams, bucks, bear heads mounted over the fireplace, and it of massive river stones. Carpet that covers my toes. I don’t know what to say. I know now she wasn’t lying about the contractor and the real estate. Or the kids. Two beautiful little girls are seated on the thick carpet in their nightgowns, one about two, the other about four. Dark hair like her, shy smiles.

“Hi,” I say. They look up at me, smile, look down. They have toys, trucks, Sylvester the Cat on the floor. The remnants of their suppers are on paper plates beside them. Potato chips. Gnawed hamburger buns. They whisper things to each other and cast quick glances at me while they pretend not to watch.

“I’ll be ready in just a minute, Gary,” she says.

I look around. “Yeah. Okay,” I say. I’m watching the little girls. They’ve taken my interest. They’re so precious. I know they cannot comprehend what has happened to their daddy. I feel myself to be an intruder in this house, a homewrecker. The husband, the father, could come home and kill me this minute with a shotgun. Nothing would be said. No jury would convict the man. I don’t belong here.