What would you do if your wife, whom you loved dearly, told you that she was in love with another man, whom you respected highly? What if she told you not because she intended to act on her feelings, but because she needed your help in not acting on them?

Have a drink.

Bat an eyelash.

For my affect theory course, I just finished reading “The Princesse de Cleves,” written by Madame de Lafayette during the reign of Louis XIV and about the reign of Henri II. The rather masochistic heroine defies courtly conventions which dictate that love has no part in a marriage (you take a lover, silly) and tries very, very hard to be faithful to her husband, though she and M. de Nemours really, really want each other. In desperation, Mme de Cleves confesses her love to her husband. It will foster trust, right? M. de Cleves does not have a drink. Rather, a la Othello, he grows increasingly jealous, sends out spies, becomes convinced of her infidelity based on faulty evidence, grows sick and dies. La princesse rejects M. de Nemours and finds religion. M. de Nemours eventually gets over her and presumably kicks himself for passing up the opportunity to marry Elizabeth I of England.

While I was working at the pub, a mysterious, small man who didn’t speak English very well read my palm. He told me three things about my love line:
I am a player.
If I do get married:
I will be married only once.
There will be extramarital affairs. On both sides.
My husband will suffer the tragic loss of family members.
I like to bring up this reading on first dates and ask what the best-case scenario would be as to the chronological order of respective affairs and familial deaths.

A dire afternoon awaits me, though it is sunny and crisp. I must write a bureaucratic document.