And in the summertime, the nectarines hang low and heavy on the branches of the tree in my backyard. It’s not difficult to imagine myself untethered—the way he looks past me like I’m some other body. And in the evenings, I’m all hers. Sometimes we spend hours on the phone. Sometimes we drink wine at the café. Always, I listen to her voice, and it’s otherworldly. Another world where our husbands are not our husbands. And she tells me about her children: Sasha still afraid of water, Cameron sleep talking rollercoasters. I have no children to discuss, just fruit trees. Nectarines and apricots and apples. And she listens with fervor. We drink one bottle and then another. We avoid our homes and our husbands. Another world where we meet each other first. Where it is her in my home and my bed. And I cannot sleep well anymore, spend my nights opening and closing the fridge, eating olives and sipping whiskey. When I return to bed, there’s the brine and the booze on my breath, but my husband snores on. And I think she would notice. No, she’d be awake with me, a jar of olives between us, laughter. We’d talk about the shape of things—our lives unfolding, the moonlight on the fruit trees. And it’s all impossible. Our husbands. Her children. Some other world. And her voice on the phone, a soothing hopeful sound in the night.