“Did you spend thousands of dollars on the Internet today?” he asks when he gets home from work and finds me with my pillows and hot-water bottles on the not-perfect couch where he left me in the morning, a low-slung rattan situation my parents bought as patio furniture in the early ’90s. “Not today,” I say. “Nice,” he says. “Do you want to go get in bed together and stare at the ceiling?” I do. We do.
