I called Chad and I was normal, newsy, clipped. He had forgiven me about the anniversary. Across from me was a mirror. There I was. That neat little head, the shiny black hair cut blunt at the collarbone, the deep-set eyes, the quick expressions—laughing, pouting, flirting. Out of nowhere, Chad asked me, “Are you okay?” The tenderness in his voice cut the power on my act. I fell silent; tears sprang to my eyes. My face in the mirror was swollen and slack. I felt myself teetering. Either I start sobbing to Chad, or I get a grip on myself and go downstairs.

I brushed my teeth till my mouth was foaming, put on my highest heels, got in the elevator, and smacked the button for the lobby with the side of my fist. When the elevator doors opened, a blast of merriment from the restaurant hit me; I walked across the lobby into the raucous place and found a long table packed with reps. My seat had been saved next to Tom. I sat down, ordered an appetizer and a Diet Coke. Donna, the buyer from CVS, was seated opposite me, bronzed and observant, her fingers, with their long pearly nails, curled around the stem of her wineglass. I looked at that leathery hand and wondered if Donna had ever been in the same situation as I had just been in, and what she had done if she had. I didn’t talk to Tom or look at him, but after a while I felt his sweltering hand on the small of my back, just idling there. I excused myself then, went up to my room, bolted the door, and took a sleeping pill.

The flight home was smooth as glass, so smooth I kept forgetting I was flying as I picked crumpled receipts out of my wallet, straightened each one out, and put the work stubs into the little ziplock baggie I always carried with me to submit to the company later.

When I got back to my apartment, Chad had let himself in. He had ordered takeout and set out the plates in front of the TV. I changed into my pajamas, snuggled into him, and we watched an episode of something. After the credits came up, Chad looked at me a long time. His cheeks were mottled, as though he had just come in from the snow or been slapped. “Maybe a kid wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all,” he said. Mute, I put my head on his shoulder.

Months later, we walked into a restaurant in Cincinnati and ran into Tom Sanduli sitting near the bar with some other meaty guy. After the jovial introductions, Chad and I took our seats. I tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but I could feel Sanduli behind me; every now and then he guffawed. I looked up at Chad. He was halfway through his crab cakes, staring at me.