A friend of his, an art collector, offered a loan—to be paid back in artwork—but only on the condition that he get to meet the teenager who had broken up a marriage. Arnold didn’t say as much, but I sensed I was part of the transaction. The collector owned a steel plant, three homes, had grandchildren and a wife of forty years, and also a mistress not much older than me.

We met at the collector’s version of Ah Fong’s, a Japanese shabu-shabu restaurant with private rooms and servers who looked like geishas. He arrived with his mistress, who dressed her part—black dress, evening bag, heels, which she left by the shoji screen door. I wore bell-bottoms and gladiator sandals with tire-tread soles.

It was the first time I saw our age difference mirrored in another couple. The mistress had to help the collector sit on the tatami floor. When he took her hand, it looked like Father Time clasping onto a new branch. He was only five years older than Arnold.