You could never get that area, he said. You could do two hundred situps and twists a day and never quite get to those little bulging handles of fat. Love handles, Barbara said. Or she would say it was because he wore his pants so low, down on his hips. Something left over from younger days. And he would say he would never wear his pants way up high, the way fat old men did. Where did they get those pants? The goddamn zipper must be two feet long.

When he came out, with the towel around his middle, and went over to the dresser, Barbara said, "I'll wait until you come down before I put your eggs on."

He said, "Fine," and got a pair of jockey shorts out of the dresser. He never wore an undershirt top or a T-shirt.

Watching him, Barbara's expression was calm, her dark hair combed, her skin clear and clean-looking without make-up. She was forty-two; a very attractive forty-two. She had confidence in herself and in her husband, but she was worried about him and wasn't sure why.

She took off her housecoat, then timed it, waiting until he turned before she stepped into her panties, raising the short nightgown and pulling it up over her head.

"I probably got about two hours sleep," Mitchell said. "I need a bigger couch."

"Usually it's the wife who makes the excuse."

He looked at her, her body, the lines showing her tan and the white breasts. "What?"

"The wife says she has a headache as the husband reaches for her."

"I'm not making excuses. I'm not only tired, I got to get back to work."

She reached behind her to hook the bra. "I've seen you dead on your feet, but you could always move other parts of you."

"Barbara-do people argue about making love?"

"I don't know what other people do."