Lights up Michigan glittered. Traffic hummed but was thinner. The canyon of buildings seemed festive, a white background of night light and the startling half moon nearly lost in hazy distance. A skiff of snow had blown against the curbs. Heavy coats a must. Wales felt good, at ease with things. Unburdened. Not at all unstrung.

In the hotel lobby there’d been a wedding party with a bride, but no sign of Jim with the tickets. No sign of a detective when they passed out the main doors.

On the brisk walk, Jena’s mind was loosened after making love, as if she couldn’t match things right. She mentioned her husband and their therapy—all his idea, she said, her face hidden in a sable parka her husband had certainly paid for. She’d been fine with things, she said. But he’d wanted something more, something he couldn’t quite describe but could feel vividly the lack of. A sense of locatedness was absent— his words—something she should somehow contribute to. “I thought a therapist would at least tell me something important, right?” Jena said. “‘Forget marriage.’ Or, ‘Here’s a better way to do it.’ Why else go? Except that’s not in the package. And the package gets expensive.”

Wales thought about Jena’s husband, about conversations he and the husband could have. How they might like each other. The husband would no doubt think Jena was out of her head just for being the way she was—so different, she would seem, from real estate. It made him happy that Jena had someone to feel certain about; someone willing to be complicit in his own deception; that there were these children. Her circle of affection. What else was marriage if not a circle of affection?

“It really seems so hopeless, doesn’t it?” She laughed, too loud.

“Maybe no one could … ” He started to say something extremely banal but stopped. He shook his head “no.” It made her smile. Her face was softened, so appealing even in the blasted air, her lips slightly bruised. She took his hand, which he found to be trembling. Again, the vigor of lovemaking, he thought. He had an urge, a strong one just then, to tell her he loved her—here on the street. But by stopping midsentence he once again curtailed revealing himself. She preferred that. A pledge of love was inappropriate, even if he’d felt it.

He wished, though, that his hands wouldn’t tremble, since now was the best time, the moment after making love, when everything seemed possible, easy, when they could surprise each other with a look, change almost anything with an offhand remark. It had nothing to do with revealing yourself.

“When you leave Chicago, where’re you going?” Jena said.