That’s when I started thinking. First I thought I should just turn back and walk back and get out of there. Then I thought I should just pretend I hadn’t seen him, and walk on. Then I thought: of course I have to say hello. I walked a bit slower. I thought should I wait for him to see me, to turn and look over? I thought shit. Shit, I thought. I wasn’t expecting to see him. I hadn’t seen him for months. I’d thought I’d never see him again.

It is weird, I can tell you, the feeling. Loving yourself like you have never any other being, being in love with yourself, and fighting and deceiving and giving and hugging, rewarding, even, like a best friend. But suddenly you turn around, turn back and to the sides and look in front and there is nobody but you, there and only, standing or sitting, however you like it.

I say come on, Jill. Rehab? I grin. I shake my head. She looks at me through the steam. She throws some dried herbs into the vegetables. She says I’m serious, some type of de-thinking rehab, I don’t know what they’re called, but I bet they exist. She pauses. She repeats: I bet they exist. She says: you have no idea how I feel right now, Albert. You have no idea what this weekend’s been like. She pauses. She says: Tim called on Friday, you know? Just to see how I was doing, he said. But I knew he wanted something else. He only calls me when he wants something.

The other married couples in the party are also wearing colorful ties and fake smiles. There are many tables covered with white linen cloths, as are the six chairs around each of the tables. It’s a sunny Sunday. The grass retains traces of yesterday’s dew. Three waiters walk around with trays topped with glasses of icy water, glasses of icy carrot juice, and bottles of cold (yet not icy) champagne. Every ten minutes, the waiters run into each other, and they mutter something in Spanish.