Patrick’s study door squeaks open, and his footsteps move down the hall, away from our bedroom, toward the kitchen. I could go to him, pour us a stiff drink, and tell him what happened with Steven after dinner. I should go; I know it.

But I won’t.

Patrick is the third type of man. He’s not a believer and he’s not a woman-hating asshole; he’s just weak. And I’d rather think about men who aren’t.

So tonight, when Patrick finally comes to bed, even after he apologizes, I decide to dream of Lorenzo again.

I never know what brings it on, what makes me imagine it’s his arm, and not my husband’s, curled around my waist during the night. I haven’t spoken to Lorenzo since my last day at the university. Well, and that one other time, afterward, which didn’t involve an abundance of vocalization.

I wriggle out from the heavy appendage encircling me. It’s too much like ownership, that gesture; too possessive. Also, the smoothness of Patrick’s skin, his soft doctor’s hand and fine hair, they’re all getting in the way of my memories, blotting them out.

Lorenzo may have returned to Italy by now. I’m not sure. It’s been two months since I followed my heart and libido and went with him. Two months since I risked everything for an afternoon tumble.

Not tumble, Jean—love, I remind myself.

It was his plan, all along, to go back to what we called the Boot, once the visiting professorship had run its course. He missed the cooking and the sea, oranges and peaches fattened on rich volcanic soil until they grew as big as the sun. And his language. Our language.

Patrick stirs beside me, and I slip out of bed. In the kitchen, I get out the old macchinetta from a cupboard, press espresso grounds into its tiny perforated cup, and fill the bottom container with water before putting it on a low flame. It’s nearly five o’clock, and I won’t be sleeping anymore.

Was it the coffee that started things on their trajectory? Or was it the Italian? All of a sudden, I feel cold and warm at the same time.