Love the one youre with

'Same here,' Leo says. 'Wanna share?'

I say sure, knowing that we are only prolonging the inevitable.

Leo's face lights up in a way that I find both surprising and reassuring. 'Okay then,' he says briskly. 'Let's go.'

Outside, the early spring morning is cool and sharp. Soft pink light streaks a cloudless sky. There is no question that it is going to be a beautiful day. We walk along the curb to the cab stand and file into a short, swiftly moving line. A moment later, Leo is loading our luggage into the trunk of a taxi.

'Where to?' our cabbie asks once we've slid into the backseat.

Leo says, 'Two stops. The first will be in Astoria-Newton Avenue and Twenty-eighth… and the second stop?…' He looks at me, his dark eyebrows raised, waiting for my address.

'Thirty-seventh and Third,' I say, as I picture the inside of my apartment at this very moment-the blinds drawn and everything quiet except for the muffled sounds of morning traffic gearing up; Andy, in a worn T-shirt and pajama bottoms, curled up asleep in our bed. Guilt slashes through my chest, but I tell myself that I will be home soon enough.

'Murray Hill, huh?' Leo asks approvingly. He was never a big fan of my old neighborhood.

'Yeah. We really like it,' I say. 'There's no scene… and it's very convenient, central…'

We, I think. My husband and I.

I can tell the pronoun registers with Leo, too, as there is the slightest adjustment in his expression as he nods, almost respectfully. Or perhaps he's just musing over the other half of his own we-Carol, who might even be on Newton Avenue right now, waiting for him in her prettiest nightgown. As we cruise along the Long Island Expressway, I realize that I have no idea whether they are living together or whether he sees marriage-with her or anyone-in his future.

I also realize that I never told Leo about my possible move to Atlanta. I would like to think this was simply an oversight, but deep down I know that it was an intentional omission, although I'm not sure why I held it back. Am I worried that Leo would view the move as the old wishy-washy Ellen trailing after her man? Or that he would discount me completely, on the basis of geography? Or is it because, on some level, I don't want to move, despite what I told Andy?

Once again, I tell myself there will be time for analysis later. Right now, I only want to relish the simple beauty of the moment I'm in-the sun rising on the horizon, the gentle hum of Egyptian music playing on the radio, the knowledge that Leo is beside me in the backseat as we finish the last leg of our journey.

A few minutes later, we exit at Astoria Boulevard, right under the Triborough Bridge and the elevated subway. I look up at the lattice of tracks and am overcome with memories, all the times I took the N train to this neighborhood. More memories flood back to me when we turn onto Leo's block and I see the familiar squat, brick row houses painted in shades of cream, red, and pink, with their trash cans and green awnings lined up in front. Leo points to his building, in the middle of the block, and says to our cabbie, 'Right there on the left, please… Next to the white pickup.'

Then, as the taxi slows to a stop, he looks back over at me, shakes his head and says pretty much exactly what I'm thinking. 'This is so fucking strange.'

'Tell me about it,' I say. 'I never thought I'd be back here.'

Leo chews his lower lip and then says, 'You know what I want to do right now?'

A few illicit images flash through my head as I nervously say, 'What?'

'Scoop you out of this car and take you inside with me,' Leo says, his voice so low that it's almost hypnotizing. 'Make us some eggs and bacon… brew up some coffee… Then sit on the couch and just… look at you… and talk to you all day…'

My heart races as I think of all the other things we did in his second-floor apartment, just a few steps from where I'm sitting now. All the things besides talking. I look into Leo's eyes, feeling weak and slightly nauseous as I frantically try to convince myself that going inside with him would be an okay thing to do. What if I only stay for a few minutes, for one quick cup of coffee? Andy isn't even awake yet. He wouldn't miss me for at least another hour or so. What would it really hurt?

I clear my throat, rake my knuckles against my thighs, and glance up at the meter, still ticking as we stall. I finally say, 'So that's what you want, huh? A bit more conversation over coffee?'

Leo gives me a long, grave look and then says, 'Okay. You're right. I'm sorry…' Then he runs his hand through his hair, exhales, and pulls two twenties from his wallet.

I shake my head, a refusal. 'I got this, Leo.'

'No way,' Leo says. It is something Leo and Andy have in common, both steadfastly refusing to let a girl pay for anything. But Andy's way seems rooted in chivalry; Leo's, a matter of pride. He thrusts the bills at me again. 'C'mon.'

'That's way too much,' I say. 'The meter's only at fourteen now.'

'Just take it, Ellen,' he says. 'Please.'

Because I don't want our final exchange to be a skirmish over a few bucks of cab fare, I take his money and say, 'Fine. Thanks.'

He nods. 'My pleasure… The whole night has been… my pleasure.' His words are stiff, but his tone is anything but mechanical. He means it. He loved our time together as much as I did.

I catch the cabbie giving us a skeptical glance in the rearview mirror before stepping out of the car, around to the trunk, where he lights a cigarette and waits.

'Are we that obvious?' Leo says.

I laugh nervously. 'Guess so.'

'Okay,' Leo says. 'Where were we?'

'I forget,' I say, feeling dizzy and so very sad.

Leo looks up at the ceiling of the car and then back at me. 'I think we just established that you coming inside is a bad idea, right?'

'I think so,' I say.

'Well, then,' Leo says, his eyes burning into mine. 'I guess this is it.'

'Right,' I say. 'This is it.'

He hesitates, and for a second, just like at the diner, I think he might hug me, or even kiss me. Instead, he just offers up a small, sad smile before turning to go. The cab door slams behind him, and I watch him swing his bag over his shoulder, cross the sidewalk toward his apartment, and take the stairs two at a time up to the front porch. He does not turn to wave good-bye, or even give the cab another look before opening the door and disappearing inside. My eyes sting with tears as we pull away from the curb, and I repeat those final words in my head, over and over. This is it.

eighteen

Somewhere along my short journey from Queens to Manhattan, I go from feeling dejected and forlorn to merely wistful and nostalgic, which is at least a step in the right, repentant direction. But when I push open our apartment door and find Andy in his favorite green-plaid robe, carefully slathering butter on a toaster waffle, I feel nothing but pure, unadulterated, aching guilt. In some strange way, though, it is almost a relief to feel this bad-and proof that I haven't strayed too far. That at my core, I am still a decent wife.

'Hey, honey,' Andy says, dropping his knife onto the counter and wrapping his arms around me in a so- happy-to-see-me hug. I inhale his sweet boyish scent, so different from Leo's musky one.

'Hi, Andy,' I say, catching the formality of using his name, something couples almost never seem to do unless they are angry or calling one another from another room. Then I make it worse by asking, in a tone more accusatory than pleasantly surprised, what he's doing up so early. I just can't help thinking that this would be an easier, less abrupt transition if he were still asleep.

'I missed you,' he says, kissing my forehead. 'I don't sleep well without you…'

I smile and tell him I missed him, too, but the sinking realization that this is nothing short of a lie-that I did not miss my husband at all-gives my guilt a tinge of panic. I reassure myself that that