She had more than sixty thousand dollars she had saved or made from an oil company one of her colleagues had told her about. If she wanted to, she could buy a car, a Porsche Boxter came to mind. She wouldn’t even have to sell the oil stock, she could get a loan and pay it off over three or four years and on weekends drive out to the country, to Connecticut, the little coastal towns, Madison, Old Lyme, Niantic, stopping somewhere to have lunch in a place that, in her imagination, was painted white outside. Perhaps there would be a man there, by himself, or even with some other men. He wouldn’t have to fall off a boat. It wouldn’t be Bunning, of course, but someone like him, wry, a little shy, the man she had somehow failed to meet until then. They’d have dinner, talk. They’d go to Venice, a thing she’d always wanted to do, in the winter, when no one else was there. They’d have a room above the canal and his shirts and shoes, a half-full bottle of she didn’t bother to think of exactly what, some Italian wine, and perhaps some books. The sea air from the Adriatic would come in the window at night and she would wake early, before it was really light, to see him sleeping beside her, sleeping and breathing softly.