7

“Would you go to your bedroom?”

“If you want to date while we’re married,” I answered with annoyance, “at least meet outside the apartment.”

“He’ll be here any minute. I’d rather he didn’t see you.”

“I’d rather not see him either.”

“Can’t you be a little bit considerate?”

“You could be considerate too.”

“Do you want to pretend I’m not dating?”

“I just don’t want to witness your new romances.”

“Maybe you should look for your own apartment,” she shot back.

The doorbell interrupted us.

“Will you get out of here?”

I shook my head and sank into the couch with a feeling of being immovable. She looked at me with loathing, then turned and hurried to the door. She greeted him with a kiss and whispered a few sentences that I knew had to be about me. He came into the living room with her beside him.

“So you’re the roommate.” He had a melodic voice.

“The husband-roommate,” I corrected him.

“We’re living separately,” she interjected.

“Separate bedrooms,” I agreed.

“Nice to meet you.”

He extended his hand toward me. Without thinking, I rose to my feet and shook his hand. He stood a few inches above me, so I had to tilt my head slightly to look up into his green-gray eyes. He had smooth skin and luxuriant blond hair. He had to be at least ten years younger than my wife, closer to the age that we had been when we married.

“It’s a nice apartment,” he said, moving his gaze over the art and oversized leather couch and chairs.

“Would you like a beer?” I offered.

She looked at me with a wondrous combination of fury, disbelief, and impatience.

“Enough!” She stepped forward. “We have to get going.”

“Some other time,” I said.

She took him by the arm and moved toward the front door.

“See you later,” he replied over his shoulder.

“Enjoy the evening,” I called in return.