She had been close enough to be at my door in six minutes, at 10:23 on a weeknight, and I understood what that meant too.

I opened the door.

Valentina stood in the hall in a dress and heels, her hair done, wearing the perfume I’d bought her for her birthday.

She did not look like a woman who happened to be passing through the neighborhood.

She looked like a woman arriving somewhere she’d arrived before.

The six minutes told me more than the affair itself.