It was inexcusable to have put the conversation off as long as he had, and this was his just reward for his indolence: Angelica writing weeks in advance and requesting him to clear his schedule, as though she were a business rival expecting to be rebuffed by a harried secretary rather than his wife. He'd given himself a few days after the initial argument to collect himself, and then he'd delayed so that he didn't have to bring it up just before another event they were meant to attempt together. Then he'd started thinking about what she'd said during their fight: you're going to push me off and hope I drop this. He wasn't trying to play into her expectations, but he also hadn't worked out how to start. There were fundamental things that she misunderstood, and if she continued to misunderstand it would prevent them from ever rebuilding trust, but he didn't know how to talk about them. So he had let the time stretch until it had stretched too far, and it no longer felt like he reasonably could bring it up when she hadn't. And she hadn't. No further discussion of wanting to experiment with lifestyle parties. No further questions about the man she presumed he was in love with. He wasn't sure if her silence was intended to be an olive branch extended to him or if she thought it a punishment; he knew her too well to presume it came without some kind of ulterior motive.

He sat tense in his chair. Halfway across the room her posture was the same, as if poised to dodge a jinx at any moment. He sighed. He'd only just handed her a glass, only been seated a few seconds, and already he was tired of this exchange. "Angelica," he started. "Perhaps tonight we could pretend to be lovers instead of strangers."

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