Wendy caught a firefly. She cupped it in her hand and said, “Hello, little fellow.”

“How do you know it’s a fellow?”

“Take a look.”

In the shadow of her hand a golden-green light flickered on and off. “Yep, it’s a fella all right.”

She laughed and let him go. After her head was on my shoulder she said, “I know these aren’t your kind of people, Sam. But remember, your kind of people aren’t my kind of people, either.”

“I thought you liked Kenny.”

“I don’t mean Kenny. I mean your clients. Some of them are really criminals. I mean bad people.”

The front door opened behind us. Our haven had been invaded again. We could have kept on talking but we were self-conscious now. I got up and helped Wendy to her feet.

“Hope we didn’t chase you off,” a woman’s voice said from the shadows.

“No. We were leaving anyway.”

When we were out of earshot, Wendy said, “Very nice, Sam. You’re really learning social skills.”

“You mean instead of saying, ‘Look, you sorry bastard, you ruined our whole evening.’?”

“Exactly.” She clung to my arm woozily and kissed my cheek. “See, isn’t it fun being polite to people you hate?”

“You’re crazy.”

“Look who’s talking.”

As we drew closer to my car, I slid my arm around her shoulders. We had our battles, but most of the time there was peace, something I’d never had much of in my past affairs. I’d started to believe what I’d heard a TV pop psychologist say, that some people liked agitation in their relationships. I’d just always assumed that was the way it had to be. But Wendy showed me how wrong I’d been.