Genius

“Then he’s your lover,” I say innocently, and walks off.

The years pass, and he never lets me or Elaine out of his sight. In the dead of night, we go to the observatory to look at the sky as she sings and plays the violin.

“The Summer Triangle,” she points out, and he touches the face of the fifty-year-old woman, thinking of how beautiful she will be at sixty, seventy, eighty.