She took a deep breath.
He didn't look at her. "But you're going back to the Center."
She stared at him, a film of moisture in her eyes. She didn't cry or ask questions or protest. Joe wished she would. This was worse.
"It's not your fault," he said, after a moment. "I'm not going to get another. You're as ideal, almost, as a human wife can ever be."
"I've tried so hard," she said. "Maybe I tried too hard."
"No," he said, "it isn't your fault. Any reasonable man would be delighted with you, Vera. You won't be at the Center long."
"I don't want a reasonable man," she said quietly. "I want you, Joe. I—I loved you."
He had started to get out of the car. He paused to look back. "Loved? Did you use the past tense?"
"I used the past tense." She started to get out on her side of the car. "I don't want to talk about it."
"But I do," he told her. "Is this love something you can turn on and off like a faucet?"