It was a gallery opening in November — too loud, too crowded, and neither of them had wanted to come. Amara was standing in front of a canvas of marigolds on a black ground, and Julian said the only interesting thing anyone said to her all night: that the painter had clearly run out of yellow.

She corrected him. He was wrong, and he was delighted to be wrong. They left before the speeches and walked until the city went quiet.