The Arithmetic of Affection

The silence in the library was thick enough to slice, a stark contrast to the opulence that filled the room. Crystal decanters caught the low evening light, and the scent of lemon oil and old books hung in the air. Casey, a man of quiet intellect who had once found poetry in star charts and sonatas, watched his wife, Eleanor, as she stood by the marble fireplace.

Their marriage, now in its second year, had settled into a fragile détente, a union of her loneliness and his modest means. That evening, some small disagreement—perhaps about a misplaced book or an unappreciated concert—had escalated into the familiar, cold war of indebtedness.

“If it wasn’t for my money,” Eleanor began, her voice not sharp, but terribly precise, like the cut of a diamond, “that new television console wouldn’t be here.” She gestured with a tilt of her chin toward the sleek, silent monolith in the corner. “If it wasn’t for my money, that Bösendorfer grand piano wouldn’t be gracing the...