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about building a new basketball stadium.
    “Sure.” I shrugged, yawning sleepily and glancing down at the tickets in my hand. “I should probably learn something about my new client.”
    “It’s Friday night? What else do I have on Friday?” he asked.
    I narrowed my eyes. “You better not have forgotten.”
    Michael smiled and held up his briefcase like a shield against my death glare. “Kidding. I have to go to New York that day,” he said, opening our front door and stepping outside, then quickly ducking back in to kiss me. “I’ll meet you there.”
    As the evening approached, I began to look forward to it more and more. At least Michael and I could laugh at the opera snobs—they didn’t actually use those silly little glasses, did they?—then, afterward, we could have a late dinner together. I’d surprise my husband, I decided, impulsively reaching for the phone to make reservations at a fancy Italian restaurant where every booth was sealed off with thick velvet curtains.
    At five o’clock, I stopped working and took a long, steaming bath in my Jacuzzi. I spent extra time on my makeup, blending a peach blush high on my cheekbones and smoking my eyes; then I put on my new emerald-colored silk underwear. Michael had once told me he liked the way the color brought out the green in my hazel eyes. If my push-up bra lifted and plumped with the enthusiasm it promised, I doubted Michael would be noticing my eyes tonight.
    By the time I began to climb the majestic marble steps leading to the opera company’s front doors, I felt almost giddy. Michael and I needed to do this more often, I realized, inhaling the crisp air that made me think of bonfires and hot apple cider and the crunch of orange and gold leaves under my feet. How long had it been since we’d had a quiet dinner, just the two of us?
    I looked off into the distance at the Washington Monument and nearly laughed out loud, remembering the first time I’d seen it, more than a decade earlier. Michael and I had been teenagers then, freshly graduated from high school and driving toward our new life together in an ancient station wagon with a piece of paneling missing from the side and garbage bags stuffed full of our belongings in the trunk. Every fifty miles or so we’d had to stop and fill the radiator with cold water and check the patched tire to make sure it wasn’t leaking.
    Then we crossed from Virginia into D.C. and the huge, pencil-shaped monument loomed into view. Michael pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car while we gaped at it. We’d really done it; we’d escaped our town and our families, and we were crossing the threshold into a brand-new life together.
    “I can’t believe it,” Michael breathed.
    I blinked back tears, too overcome to talk.
    “I mean, I can’t believe they built that thing just to honor me,” he said, guiding my hand to his lap. “Isn’t it a perfect replica?”
    I batted his hand away. “Freud was right about you men,” I said. “Do you really think everything is about your anatomy?”
    “Absolutely not! Gherkin pickles and Vienna sausages couldn’t be more different.” Michael leered, and I hit him again, then kissed him long and hard while cars flew past us, honking and weaving in and out of lanes.
    But five minutes before Madama Butterfly was scheduled to start, the smile dropped away from my face. I’d gotten used to sending our regrets when Michael begged off from dinner parties, and I’d canceled our trip to Paris—the first real vacation we’d ever planned to take. But would he really do this to me tonight, when he knew I’d be standing outside, waiting for him?
    As if on cue, my BlackBerry buzzed with a new message: M EETING RUNNING LATE . F LYING HOME IN THE MORNING . S ORRY .
    I stood there uncertainly, watching a few stragglers hurry inside.
    You don’t have any right to be upset , I told myself, trying to push back the anger and hurt that instantly flooded me. You wanted