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He opened the plate-glass door for her, experiencing a fleeting sense of déjà vu. How many times in the course of a courtship and marriage had he opened the door for her? There were times during their breakup when he'd angrily walked out before her and let the door close in her face. Tonight, faced with an emotional upheaval, it felt reassuring to perform the small courtesy again.
    Outside, their breath hung milky in the cold air, and the snow, compressing beneath their feet, gave off a hard-candy crunch like chewing resounding within one's ear. At the foot of the sidewalk, where it gave onto the parking lot, she paused and half-turned as he caught up with her.
    â€œI'll see you there,” she said.
    â€œI'll follow you.”
    Heading in opposite directions toward their cars, they started the long, rocky journey back toward amity.

Chapter 2
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    THEY MET IN THE LOBBY of the restaurant and followed a glossy-haired, effeminate young man who said, “Right this way.” Michael felt the same déjà vu as earlier, trailing Bess as he'd done countless times before, watching the sway of her coat, the movement of her arms as she took off her gloves, inhaling the faint drift of her perfume, the same rosy scent she'd worn for years.
    The perfume was the only familiar thing about her. Everything else was new—the professionally streaked blonde hair nearly touching her shoulder, the expensive clothes, the self-assurance, the brittleness. These had all been acquired since their divorce.
    They sat at a table beside a window, their faces tinted by an overhead fixture with a bowl-shaped orange globe and the pinkish glow of the phosphorescent lamps reflecting off the snow outside. The supper crowd had gone, and a hockey game was in progress on a TV above the bar somewhere around a corner. It murmured a background descant to the piped-in orchestra music falling from the ceiling.
    Michael removed his coat and folded it over an empty chair while Bess left hers over her shoulders.
    A teenage waitress with a frizzy hairdo came and asked if they'd like menus.
    â€œNo, thank you. Just coffee,” Michael answered.
    â€œTwo?”
    Michael deferred to Bess with a glance. “Yes, two,” she answered, with a quick glance at the girl.
    When they were alone again, Bess fixed her gaze on Michael's hands, wrapped palm-over-palm above a paper place mat. He had square, shapely hands, with neatly trimmed nails and long fingers. Bess had always loved his hands. They were, she'd said many times, the kind of hands you'd welcome on your dentist. Even in the dead of winter his skin never entirely paled. His wrists held a whisk of dark hair that trailed low and made his white cuffs appear whiter. There was an undeniable appeal about the sight of a man's clean hands foiled by white shirt cuffs and the darker edge of a suit sleeve. Oftentimes after the divorce, at odd, unexpected moments—in a restaurant, or a department store—Bess would find herself staring at the hands of some stranger and remembering Michael's. Then reality would return, and she would damn herself for becoming vulnerable to memory and loneliness.
    In a restaurant, six years after their divorce, she drew her gaze from Michael's hands and lifted it to his face, daunted by the admission that she still found him handsome. He had perfect eyebrows above attractive hazel eyes, full lips and a head of gorgeous black hair. For the first time she noticed a few skeins of gray above his ears, discernible only under the direct light.
    â€œWell . . .” she began, “this has been a night of surprises.”
    He chuckled quietly in reply.
    â€œThis is the last place I expected to end up when I told Lisa I'd come for supper,” Bess told him.
    â€œMe too.”
    â€œI don't think you're as shocked by all this as I am, though.”
    â€œI was shocked when you opened that door, I can tell you that.”
    â€œI wouldn't have been