I’m bone tired, and so is he. We’ve spent the past 14 hours racing in opposite directions, but it’s still been a remarkably similar day for both of us. Each has lost count of panicky phone calls from colleagues and superiors, a dozen mini-crises carefully averted. And now we’re supposed to have sex, because we’ve said this thing to each other – we’ll have sex every night.

My younger self wouldn’t have been capable of understanding my hesitation, wouldn’t have believed that getting naked and freaky with a hot man could ever feel like a chore.

I take a breath and survey our home: his briefcase sitting on a dining room chair; papers spread across the table; dinner and breakfast dishes in the sink. He sees this, knows that I’m inventorying chores to be done, as well as his unwitting additions to that list. And now I’m even more tired. I’m so lost in annoyance I don’t sense him move, but...