Back home in bed, at the moment when Dan reflexively reaches out for her nearest breast, Alyssa has to stop herself from saying something like: “Better make sure we reach the quota!” It’s not like he’d be offended—he’d probably think it was funny—but she is hyper-aware now of the habits of their shared life in a way she had never been. Perhaps this new anxiety is all to do with the engagement, a natural reaction to the prospect of spending the rest of one’s life with the same person. That must be it. But that night, when he is thrusting inside her, she experiences a strange dissociative sensation, as if the body being enthusiastically penetrated in the bed no longer belongs to her in any meaningful way. As if her mind is walling itself off from some physical threat.

It only gets worse over the next few days. Every time he initiates sex, her whole body tenses up and then retreats. He doesn’t seem to notice, or at least he doesn’t say anything. She starts making excuses whenever sex is on the horizon—cramps; a headache; she’s too tired—and she sees it hurts his feelings, this sudden pulling away from their physical life. But it is she who worries the most about getting hurt. Not just feelings, either. She has developed an inexplicable fear that while they’re fucking he will try to crush her with the weight of his body, so when they do have sex now, she maneuvers until she’s either on top or on her side. She imagines his big, capable hands around her neck, crushing her windpipe like a soda can. It’s one of his party tricks, crushing and twisting the empty can until it transforms into a neat, squat sphere.

A happy idea takes root: it’s not too late to take it all back. She could tell him she’s been on some bad medication that’s been fucking with her moods, and then promise to throw away the pills so that things can get back to normal. They could even laugh about it, once enough time has elapsed. It is almost unbearably tempting to do this, knowing the words would summon his broad smile, his instant forgiveness, and that afterward they could go drink rosé and eat paella in the shadow of a medieval bell tower, and maybe, later on, dance in a dimly lit square by a fountain. The vision is so powerful and beautiful she almost succumbs to it.

But then she thinks again about his hands, their strength and size, about what it has felt like these last few weeks to have his body pressed against hers—the rush of panicked nausea; the irresistible urge to run as far as she can—and she knows she has to go. The fight-or-flight response is already uncoiling like a snake in her brain. She can feel her neck going red and beads of sweat forming behind her ears.