He could not remember whether it had been in her apartment in Lawrence, the one they'd shared for two weeks after their marriage, or in the tiny one-room apartment in the back of the house where the old Italian couple lived, that summer on Staten Island, or in the third-floor row house apartment in Baltimore, after he'd been accepted to graduate school that fall—he could only remember that it had been sometime that first year of their marriage when she had suggested the agreement.

"If either of us is thinking about having an affair," she'd said, "I mean, seriously thinking about one, not just fantasizing, we'll tell the other one first, so we have a chance to talk about it."

He had not hesitated; perhaps he had even laughed at her for thinking such an agreement would be necessary. But it had been the mid '60's, when one strove to be kind and honest, and when it had been possible to believe that one could promise to be kind and honest forever. Her reasoning, which she had shared with him, was that she wasn't completely sure he loved her, despite his belief that he did.