You let him put his hand on your ass as the wheel spins again. This time, when you win, you push your ass against him. You let him lean into you and say, “Do you want to get out of here?” You say, “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t trust myself with you.” You cannot bring up marriage first. You already said the word earlier. You have to wait for him to say it. He said it in the papers. He will say it again. But you have to wait. You cannot rush it. He has one more drink. The two of you win three more times. You let his hand graze your upper thigh, and then you push it away. It is two A.M., and you are tired. You miss the love of your life. You want to go home. You would rather be with her, in bed, hearing the light buzz of her snoring, watching her sleep, than be here. There is nothing about here that you love. Except what being here will afford you. You imagine a world where the two of you can go out to dinner together on a Saturday night and no one thinks twice about it. It makes you want to cry, the simplicity of it, the smallness of it. You have worked so hard for a life so grand. And now all you want are the smallest freedoms. The daily peace of loving plainly. Tonight feels like both a small and a high price to pay for that life. “Baby, I can’t take it,” he says. “I have to be with you. I have to see you. I have to love you.” This is your chance. You have a fish on the line, and you have to gently reel him in. “Oh, Mick,” you say. “We can’t. We can’t.” “IT think I love you, baby,” he says. There are tears in his eyes, and you realize he’s probably more complex than you have given him credit for. You’re more complex than he’s given you credit for, too. “Do you mean it?” you ask him, as if you desperately hope it’s true. “T think I do, baby. I do. I love everything about you. We only just met, but I feel like I can’t live without you.” What he means is that he thinks he can’t live without screwing you. And that, you believe.