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“She’s always right.”

Garlic sizzled in oil. He tipped a bowl of tomatoes into the pan, and I held my shirtsleeve out of range while reaching past him for plates.

“What are we having?”

“Dinner,” Felix said.

“I’d gathered that.”

“You’ll like it.”

The dining table was the first thing I’d bought for the condo, before the couch and the bed frame. I’d tried eleven dining sets and picked this one because the chairs were comfortable and the walnut top had room for serving dishes as well as plates. There was a pale mark near my usual place from a hot dish Felix set on the wood without a trivet and still denied putting there.

From the table, I could see past the living room’s cream sofa to the lake. The windows ran nearly floor to ceiling, and I’d kept the furniture low enough to leave the view open. Even on gray mornings, I liked watching the water while my coffee brewed. Tonight it was a deep blue, with a few white sails still out.

A reading lamp curved over the leather chair beside the windows. A book lay on the ottoman, next to the symphony program I kept meaning to put away. Felix had once suggested turning the chair toward the sofa to improve conversation. He’d suggested it while sitting in it, looking at the lake.

Dana claimed the chair by the window. The low July sun reached into my condo and lit the painting above the sideboard. It was mostly blue, with a strip of rusty orange through the middle, and the light caught the ridges of paint. In the gallery, I’d liked it. On my wall, in the evening, I loved it.

Felix brought over a shallow bowl of shrimp and white beans in tomato sauce, with torn basil scattered across the top. The shrimp were sweet, the beans soft, and the sauce had the perfect amount of heat to keep the dish interesting.

“This is excellent,” I said.

“I know.” He passed Dana the serving spoon and served himself last.

“What’s the painting story again?” she asked, nodding behind me. “Tell Felix.”

“He’s heard the painting story.”

“Twice,” Felix said. “There’s the gallery, the shipping crisis, and the guy in Milwaukee. It’s a fun story but not third-time-through fun.”

“We should talk fall plans,” Dana said. “Anders wants to do the cabin the first weekend of October. Are you in, or is that a symphony weekend?”

I checked my phone, though I already knew. “Symphony—Mahler.”

“Skip it.”

“I could. If something better came along.”

“The cabin is better.”

“The cabin is Anders explaining the wood stove for forty minutes. The concert is Mahler.”

“You can hear Mahler anytime.”

“Not from those seats.”

I’d had the subscription eight years and improved the seats twice. From where I sat now, I could hear the quietest passage clearly, then feel the brass through my chest when the whole orchestra came in.

“What about a different weekend with Anders?” I asked. “Ask him about September, and can I bring Felix as my plus-one?”

Dana looked at Felix. “You want to come?”

“You never asked.”

They moved on to a friend of ours who’d started seeing someone, which brought the conversation around to my romantic life, or lack of one.

“Any nibbles?” Dana asked.