How had she come to this, a woman of her generation, brought up on the slogans of erotic liberation and revolutionary politics? She’d gone to nude beaches, smoked pot, used a vibrator, watched a pornographic video, and once, on a business trip, when she was much younger, had spent an afternoon in a Seattle hotel room with a total stranger. How had she ended up in an expansive burnt umber air-conditioned bedroom on a wide double-thick mattress, her hands limp on her husband’s back, desperately waiting for his assault to be over, as if she were an icy Victorian hysteric? At least those miserable creatures didn’t have to pretend to be enjoying it, didn’t have to go through the humiliation of clenching and sighing and performing a grand finale as if she were a soprano bringing a big hammy bel canto aria to a predictably shrill close.

When he was finished, he rolled off her, grinning, like a boy pleased with himself after having sex for the very first time. “Thank you,” he said, and tenderly wiped his sweat off her neck.

“Thank you,” she said. Now that it was over, she did feel grateful, grateful and guilty. If only, somehow, she could find some still place in the relationship or within herself, maybe she could get in sync with him. Maybe that was why she’d started to see Dr. Berman again. She really had to be more open with him about her feelings toward Thomas.

There was a thud from upstairs, as if something had hit the floor in Gerald’s room, and then a louder crash and the sound of glass or plastic shattering. She sat up and placed a hand over her chest. It was the explosion she’d been longing for half an hour ago, but not, never, from that part of the house. Gerald, she thought, had rolled out of bed and then something, the lamp, had fallen on top of him. Here was her punishment for wanting the distraction of disaster, for worrying about an inconsequential bowl of pudding, for thinking about Dale while Thomas did his best to please her. She leapt out of bed and opened the door to the hall, feeling the warmer air hit her damp, chafed skin. “Gerald?” she called. “Are you all right?”

Thomas ran to her side and the two of them stood there, naked and sweating, their arms around each other’s waist, as if they were both afraid to go upstairs and face their fears. “Gerald?” she called again. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Jane,” he called out. “I just dropped my Ace Hardware $5.99 flashlight. I hate to tell you, but it smashed into about ten pieces of cheap plastic.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Jane said.

“I can’t sleep with you shouting at me, can I?”

“I don’t like that tone, Gerald.”

“I told you the more expensive one would last longer.”