LITMIR.BIZ

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was stuffed with mangled cassette tapes from Emily’s teenage years; and underneath the floor mats were mummified French fries that must have come from Michael’s tenure. In a fit of perversity, Emily decided to keep everything the way it was. She felt driving a car like that was the equivalent of giving the finger to all the SUVs she encountered on her neighborhood streets.

      As she pulled into the driveway and parked behind the Bimmer, she saw a light on in one of the upstairs windows. She hadn’t realized it was so late; Julian must have gone to bed. She opened the front door and walked softly into the kitchen, which gleamed with stainless steel and polished tiles. Emily herself never spent much time in here beyond brewing a cup of coffee for her travel mug, but this was Julian’s domain. He had chosen the ecologically sustainable bamboo for the cabinetry, and the recycled glass for the backsplash. The meals he cooked were elaborate, requiring visits to multiple farmers’ markets, even trips into the city for specialty items.

      When she checked the bottom oven, she saw that Julian had left dinner for her, as was his habit. She knew that most people would appreciate this gesture from a spouse, but she was starting to feel oppressed by Julian’s culinary zeal. Tonight appeared to be some kind of Moroccan stew, judging from the colorful blend of chickpeas and peppers. To prove that she had tried it, Emily dipped a finger into the sauce and licked it; it was rich with tomatoes and saffron. She covered the dish and put it in the refrigerator. Maybe she’d have it for dinner tomorrow, provided she got back early enough.

      She passed through the living room with its massive fireplace at one end, the ceiling crisscrossed with rough-hewn beams that dated, the real estate agent had assured them, from the original structure built in the late 1700s. The aesthetic in this room was more appropriate to that time period: a pine Dutch Colonial sideboard, straight-backed Shaker chairs whose very angles spoke of openness and honesty. Julian had spent days at yard sales and local antique stores, looking for this kind of stuff, usually on weekdays when Emily was at work. He had loved the idea of buying a house that had a history, although Emily was quick to point out that it was a history that belonged to neither of them, hers being Chinese and his a mix of German and French. If it bothered her so much, Julian had said, why didn’t she get one of those scrolled and lacquered cabinets or a delicately carved rosewood table from an Asian import store in the city? Yeah, Emily had replied, that would go over real nice with the cherry end tables and Windsor chairs. Instead, she insisted on buying their couch, which was large and shapeless and upholstered in soft gray corduroy, and was absolutely brand-new.

      Upstairs, Julian was already in bed, a book lying facedown on the comforter. For a minute, Emily gazed fondly at him, the shape of his biceps beneath the worn T-shirt he liked to sleep in; the tufts of light brown hair sticking up all over his head. His hair was starting to thin on top, which endeared him to her further. It was at these times that she was so overcome with love for her husband that it seemed impossible that she could refuse him anything.

      When she slid the book out from under his hands, he stirred.

      “Don’t worry,” she said. “I saved your place.” Behind her back she inserted a coaster into the middle of the book, approximately where she thought it had been open to. Then she slipped under the covers, snuggling up to him.

      Julian made a face.

      “What? You used to like the way I smell,” she said.

      “You smell like the train.”

      She brought a sleeve to her nose. “True.” She began to unbutton her shirt.

      “That’s more like it,” he said, and buried his nose in the damp cleft of her bra. “Mmmm. Emily sweat.”

      “Gross,” she said, and pulled away from him.

      “How was your day?” he asked.

      “Hectic. Oh, get this.” She told him about Gao Hu’s medical report. “Can you believe this kind of thing happens, in this country? Sure, maybe the gulags of Russia or Chinese labor camps or something, but in America?”

      “Em,” Julian said. “You’re starting to sound scary. Right-wing scary.”

      “You know what I mean.”

      He put a hand on her thigh but appeared too tired to move it up any farther. “It’s almost midnight. You don’t want to work yourself up about this, or else you’ll never sleep.”

      “I guess you’re right. I need to go into the office tomorrow, too.”

      “One of those weekends, huh?”

      “Sorry, baby.” She threaded one hand through his hair and gave an experimental tug.

      “Don’t,” he said. “There isn’t any more where that came from.”

      She bent and kissed the top of his head. “There’ll always be enough for me.”

      After a moment, he asked, yawning, “Anything else happen today?”

      “I found out that my brother’s gay and has gone off without telling anyone where.” She paused. “Those two things are not related.”

      Julian looked more awake. “Really? Maybe he’s at some gay retreat.”

      Punching his arm, she said, “I’m serious. He went away without telling anyone who cares about him—my mom, me, his boyfriend. . . .” She hugged her elbows to herself. “I met his boyfriend for the first time today. I can’t believe my little brother has a boyfriend.”

      “How old is he now?”

      “Twenty-six.”

      “That’s old enough to be in a relationship. But given my memory of a certain someone’s reluctance to get married, I would say that settling down early doesn’t run in your family.”

      “I did too want to get married,” Emily protested. “I just didn’t like the way you went about asking me.”

      “What did you want, for me to do it in public?”

      “Oh God, no. You know my coworker, Rick? He proposed to his wife by sending a singing telegram to her workplace when they were like twenty-two or something.”

      Julian laughed. “I guess it turned out all right for him.”

      “How so?”

      “He has three kids, right? Sounds like she eventually forgave him.”

      She shook her head. “Three kids. It sounds so . . . archaic. I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

      “Can you imagine what one would be like?” Julian asked quietly.

      Another step, and she would be falling into the very thing she had dreaded for so long; a discussion that would have plenty of emotions and heated words, but no right or wrong answers, and possibly no final decision. She tried to speak slowly, rationally.

      “Julian, I thought we decided on this a long time ago. When we first got married.”

      “People change, Emily.”

      “Only if they don’t have the guts to stand for what they believe in. Do you remember how you used to say that population growth was out of control, and you were the last person who wanted to contribute to it?”

      “Emily,” he said. “I was nineteen when I said that.”

      “Have you even asked yourself why you’ve changed your mind? Maybe this is some kind of midlife crisis you’re having. Maybe you’re just looking for something you can finally be good at.” She regretted the words as soon as she had spoken them, wished she could draw them back to where her darkest, and most truthful, feelings lurked. When she was tired, it was harder for her to keep them from slipping out, especially in front of her husband. She knew that their fourteen years together wasn’t an excuse, as well as the fact that Julian would probably forgive her. She just couldn’t help it.

      “I know that you don’t think much of what I do,” Julian finally said, “but I’m not going to fail at being

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