My wife and I made love for the first time in two months last night. It was spontaneous but not awkward; we had both missed each other but had refused to admit how much. The hostility that had surrounded us in the past few weeks pushed us together, so that we spent the night in the same bed, aware of each other's needs and desires as we hadn't been since our first time together.

When I awake this morning, Lydia is fixing cereal for the baby. I sneak up behind her and kiss her neck and grab her ass, the theatrical gesture she always used to love. She giggles, something I haven't heard her do in too long.

"I'm going to take Tim shopping," she says. "He's going to need some shorts for the summer."

"Want me to go with you?"

"You have to drop the mower off at Larry's."

"I can do that anytime."

She kisses me and grabs me back.

After I leave the mower with Larry, I meander down the back county roads. As a boy, my father and I would spend several hours each summer reveling in the gentle Illinois landscape. The forests and fields pass lazily by, and the spring air wafts in through the open windows, carrying with it the smell of pollen and yesterday's rain. I usually drive with the radio on, but this afternoon there is no need for music.

I drive for about forty minutes, using up the rest of the tank. Then I head into town and stop at a gas station I don't normally use. When I pull out of the station, I head away from our house, towards the main street through town, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lydia. She is one of the few shoppers left who prefers walking, especially now that she has the stroller on which she can rest her bags. I once commented that she would keep the baby in a stroller long after he'd outgrown it; she had laughed, but I knew the logic of the idea appealed to her.

I see her at a crosswalk, and I pull up behind a truck like mine, only beige. There is a lane of traffic between us, and she isn't looking my way. I think of honking, but instead I watch her, noticing how short her hair is, how she's gained a few extra pounds around her hips. The weight helps distinguish her, but it still comes as a shock that I haven't noticed before. Not even last night, when perhaps I'd been too caught up in the surprise of the moment, the way her blouse caught on her bra as she pulled it off. I think of how she rode me, as she had done back when we were dating—determined, as though she had something to prove, a goal yet to be achieved. I think of the kisses, with teeth, and the words she'd whispered, almost indistinguishable from our grunts. Her skin had been soft—the first human skin I'd really touched since the last time we made love, sweaty and salty and slick. There is a mole on her back, I'd almost forgotten it, and my fingers had flicked across it, a minute discovery that made me press her tighter against me, until neither of us could breathe anything except each other.

My right hand drops from the steering wheel to my lap; I am conscious of it, know what is happening, but I don't care. I watch my wife and I picture the woman from the night before. My fingers and wrist work of their own accord; I don't have to tell them what to do. The motion is small and regular, building gradually, escalating in time with the late spring breeze and the sounds of traffic that surround me. I watch Lydia's profile, her angular nose, her high cheekbones, the way the breeze catches her jacket and presses it against her left breast. My hand quickens.

There is a movement, barely perceptible, to my right. I turn my head. The woman in the van next to me is staring at me. She is large and middle-aged, with short hair and an indiscernible expression. Her eyes are open as wide as her face will allow, and her mouth is slightly ajar. For a moment, my fingers continue their work. But then my hand freezes, every part of me is frozen, and the woman and I look at each other until the light changes. She turns her head dismissively and drives away, while I sit there amid the chaos, and my wife sees me and waves, and all I can do is wave back and drive on.