The seedling sat on a little stump, nearby. She and Jillian had bought it with the hope that he would transfer his affections, but the tiny maple sat in its pot, unplanted. “Plant the new one,” she urged.

He shrugged.

Allison had been upset about the tree, too, but it had been four weeks since its demise. Time to move on already. She suspected he was depressed, which might explain why they hadn’t had sex for so long. She’d been monitoring the situation closely for the past month, after her somewhat shocking realization that they had not made love since midsummer. She Googled “How to jazz up your marriage” and, after eliminating some of the more absurd suggestions—“Come to bed in high heels” and “Greet him at the door naked with a rose between your teeth”—had come up with a viable list.

She’d executed her attack over the subsequent weeks, starting with wine with dinner, which he’d declined, reminding her it was a “school night.” A sexy text a few days later had been ignored; when she asked him about it, he blushed and said he thought Siri had bungled her words. A tongue in the ear the following weekend led to a giggling fit. Last night she slipped her hand under the covers to give him a surprise hand job, but his penis lay on his leg like an overcooked asparagus, unresponsive, after which she burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” he said, as if he had been in the other room during the failed hand job.

“We haven’t had sex for over two months.”

He laughed. “That’s not true.”

“Yes it is.”

“You’re keeping track?”

“I started to. Yes.”

“Great,” he said, his tone a little bitter.

She rolled onto her back, not sure if she wanted to scream or pummel him. Weren’t men supposed to want sex all the time? What was wrong with him? Or, more frighteningly, what was wrong with her? “Are you still attracted to me?”

“Yes. Of course I am.”

“Not ‘of course.’ I can’t even remember the last time you kissed me.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

“Not like that.” She leaned in to kiss him properly, but it was like kissing a paper plate.

He patted her hair. “It’s just, I’m not feeling it.”

“‘Not feeling it.’ Terrific.”

“It’s not a permanent condition or anything.”

“Can we talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. It’ll pass,” he said, and he turned his back toward her.

They’d fallen asleep that way.