he next morning I awaken to find Andy standing over me. He is already showered and dressed in a bright green polo, madras shorts, and a woven leather belt.

"Hi," I say, clearing my throat and thinking that madras shorts look ridiculous on anyone over the age of five.

"Hey," he says so curtly that I can tell sleep has not cured his problem. Our problem.

"Where are you off to?" I ask, noting his car keys in hand and his wallet bulging in his back pocket.

"Going to run some errands," Andy says.

"Okay," I say, feeling a resurgence of rage by his steadfast refusal to address last night, to ask what's wrong, ask why I'm sleeping on the couch, wonder or care if I am happy here in Atlanta.

He twirls his keys on his index finger—a habit that is starting to grate on my nerves—and says, "So I'll see you later?"

"Yeah. Whatever," I mutter.

I watch him take a few nonchalant steps toward the door before I snap. "Hey!" I say, using the Northern definition of the word.

Andy turns, coolly gazing at me.

"What the hell's your problem?" I say, my voice rising.

"My problem?" Andy asks, an ironic smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah. What's your problem," I say, realizing that our arguing style is anything but sophisticated, probably because we don't do it enough. In fact, I can't recall a single fight of any consequence since we've been married. Something I used to wear as a badge of honor.

"You're the one sleeping on the couch," Andy says, pacing in front of the fireplace, still playing with his keys. "What's up with that?... We always said we would never do that..."

I whip the throw blanket off my legs, sit up, and finally come out with it. "Why the hell didn't you defend me last night?"

Andy looks at me, as if carefully considering the question, and then says, "Since when have you needed anyone to come to your rescue?... You seem to be perfectly self-contained these days."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I snap back at him.

"You know what it means," he says—which pisses me off even more.

Is he referring to the fact that I'm all alone here while he works and plays golf? Or that I have nothing in common with the women in my neighborhood? Or that we hardly ever make love anymore—and when we do, we barely talk afterward?

"I actually don't know what it means," I sputter. "But what I do know is that it would have been nice if my husband had something to say to that bitch and her dumbass, red-faced husband when she—"

"Give me a break. When she what?" Andy says. "When she made a joke about wine?"

"Real funny joke," I say.

"Oh, come on," Andy says. "She thought it was Margot's... Does that really make her a bitch?"

"She is a bitch. That just makes her a snob on top of it... A snob with absolutely nothing to back it up," I say, thinking that this is the most offensive part of Ginny and Craig. Snobs are always offensive, but less so if they have some kind of game. But Ginny and Craig have no game—they are just insufferable bores whose self-identity is inextricably tied to things. To fancy cars and expensive wines, to staid pearls and seersucker shorts.

"So she's a snob," Andy says, shrugging. "You used to just laugh people like that off... And now... now you've got this huge fuck-you-Atlanta thing going on and you take everything so personally."

"Last night was personal," I say.

"Well, I'd argue that it wasn't," he says, using his calm lawyerly tone. "But let's say it was."

"Yes. Let's," I say, flashing a big, fake smile.

He ignores my sarcasm and continues, "Was it really worth making my sister and Webb uncomfortable?"

My sister, I think. Andy never refers to Margot as his sister when he's talking to me, and I can't help thinking that this is very telling of his mindset. A mindset that is starting to mirror my own. You versus them, I can hear Suzanne saying. You do not belong with them.

"Well, apparently I thought it was," I say, thinking that's the price of having such jackass friends.

"And apparently I thought it wasn't," Andy says.

I look at him, feeling totally defeated and isolated, thinking that it's pretty impossible to argue with a controlled, holier-than-thou husband who has just told you, in so many words, that he prioritizes other people's feelings. Feelings other than mine, that is. So I say, "Well, you're much better than I am. Clearly."

"Oh, come on, Ellen. Get that chip off your shoulder, would you?"

It occurs to me that he's absolutely right—I do have a chip on my shoulder. A huge one. Yet this realization does nothing to soften my heart. If anything, it only makes me angrier—and more determined to stay that way.

"Just go run your errands," I say, waving him toward the door. "I'll just be here ironing all day."

He rolls his eyes and sighs. "Okay, Ellen. Be a martyr. Have it your way. I'll see ya later." Then he turns and walks toward the door.

I make a face and hold up both middle fingers at his back, then listen to the garage door open and Andy's BMW start up and pull away, leaving me in deafening quiet. I sit for a few minutes, feeling sorry for myself, wondering how Andy and I got here, in both the state of Georgia and the strained emotional state of our marriage. A marriage that is not yet a year old. I think of how everyone says the first year is the hardest and wonder when—if—it will get easier. And, in those silent moments, I succumb to what I've been contemplating doing since we arrived in Atlanta.

I make my way upstairs to the office, dig to the very bottom of my desk drawer, and excavate the forbidden Platform magazine that I have not cracked since our going-away party in New York. Not even when I spotted the magazine in the checkout line at Kroger or when Andy proudly showed his own purchased copy to his parents.

For several minutes, I stare at the cover photo of Drake. Then, something clicks inside me, and I take a deep breath, sit down, and flip to the story. My heart pounds when I see the bold byline, and the blocks of Leo's text, and my photos—photos that evoke all the emotions of that day—the stomach-churning anticipation, the desire. Foreign emotions these days.

I close my eyes, and when I open them, I start reading, hungrily devouring the story. When I get to the end, I read it twice more, slowly and methodically, as if searching for a secret, double meaning hidden in the paragraphs, sentences, words—which I manage to find, over and over, until my head spins, and all I want to do is talk to Leo.

So I keep on going.

I turn on the computer, and type out his e-mail address and a message to him:

Leo,

I just read your article. It is perfect. So satisfying. Thanks again for everything.

Hope you're well.

Ellen

Then, before I can second-guess myself, I hit send. Just clicking the key wipes away all my frustration and resentment and angst. Somewhere deep down, I know I'm in the wrong. I know I'm rationalizing my actions, and worry I might even be manufacturing problems with Andy to get this result. I also know that I'm only inviting more trouble into my life. But for now, I feel good. Really good. Better than I've felt in a long, long time.