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say that? You don’t know me.”
    â€œIt’s just how I want to think of you,” he said.
    It was like therapy, talking to David; actually, he was better than her therapist in Beverly Hills. David was a much quicker study, and refreshingly direct. There was a sadness to him, but he didn’t try to hide it—or couldn’t—and that made him that much more attractive. She could think of a dozen women back in L.A. who would crawl over each other to have dinner with this man.
    â€œSo tell me, David,” she said, “why isn’t there a woman in your life?”
    â€œHow do you know there’s not?”
    â€œI don’t think there is.”
    â€œYou’re right,” he admitted.
    â€¢ • •
    H E POURED WINE into a tumbler. They were in his living room, walls the color of pudding, an Ansel Adams photo (nice enough, but out of place), carpet the color of dirt, a greenish couch she was sitting on. Before she got married, if a man had brought her to a dump like this she wouldn’t have considered him a serious contender. Tonight they’d gone to a liquor store for wine, then walked back here like a couple of teenagers. She realized that once she stopped asking him questions he became talkative, funny. She was conscious of what she was doing, that she was a married woman in the apartment of an unmarried man, the ex-­boyfriend of her dead sister.
    â€œHere’s to you,” he said. He clinked his glass to hers. “I must tell you, I think I’m drunk. I don’t drink often, but . . .”
    â€œAnd yet you keep drinking,” she said. She was feeling a bit tipsy herself.
    She had cheated on Marty twice before; she had considered doing it far more than that. Offers were surprisingly abundant. Just last week she had gone to lunch with the guy from her firm who was to head up the marketing campaign for a new movie. They’d been seated about five seconds when he looked at her ring and said, “So, are you happily married?”
    She was appalled by his rudeness, by his lack of respect for her as a professional, and most of all by the world and its excessive store of desperation.
    She wasn’t feeling any of that now. She just wanted to be reckless.
    â€œSet down your glass,” she said. He did as he was told. She moved to him and kissed him. He was surprised at first, but he quickly adjusted. It was thrilling, almost like being young again. She hadn’t felt anything like it in years.
    V
    D AVID PACED IN his kitchen, wanting to call Carolyn. In the last six days they’d had dinner three times. She wouldn’t sleep with him. He’d asked—it seemed almost insulting not to—but only once, at the second dinner. She was married, after all. The last time he called she told him not to call again, but he had a hard time believing her. Yes, she was married, but she was available. He could feel it. He decided to call anyway. Maybe she would pick up. In fact, she did.
    â€œCome over,” he said.
    She hung up without a word. Half an hour later, she surprised him at his door. He greeted her, but she entered without speaking, set her purse on the dining table, threw her coat over a chair, slipped out of her shoes. She walked to the bedroom. David gave himself a moment to watch the elaborate design on the back pockets of her jeans swing back and forth.
    He took a deep breath, conscious of it, and then walked into the bedroom. He found her studying the bed, arms crossed, head bowed, a picture of agony.
    â€œI can’t,” she said.
    â€œThen don’t.”
    â€œBut I want to.”
    â€œThen do.”
    â€¢ • •
    L ATER, HE HELD her in his arms, drifting in and out of sleep.
    â€œWhat are we doing?” she said.
    It was a good question. It was new and exciting. He liked her, and he liked himself when he was with her. He hadn’t thought about it beyond that. He stayed quiet till she gave him a