"I almost didn't show up one day," Angelina says, resting her wrists on my shoulders. "I panicked."

"If you hadn't showed up I would have been so disappointed," I say.

"I would have called," she says.

"That wouldn't have helped."

Tristan sits while we dance. I wonder if he is not some mirror for me; if he weren't real I would create him. I like Tristan. I have a magazine in my bag and want to offer it to him, but it's too dark to read. I wonder how much of his life he spends watching Angelina dance, her jacket next to him, her cigarettes in his pocket. I ask myself if I could do what he's doing, if I could sit for hours and watch Angelina dance with other people. The first answer that comes to mind is no. But the second answer is yes. Yes, if she wasn't going home to her husband. If she was going home with me. If we were going to sleep together, to lie next to each other in my bed. If she was going home with me I could wait all night. But she isn't.

In fact, most of my problems have nothing to do with Angelina's marriage. They spring instead from the insecurities of new love. Not long ago Angelina came to my apartment. She was late and I looked from my window and saw a black car pause and then continue down the street. I thought it was hers and went downstairs thinking she couldn't find parking and would come back around and I would get in and we would drive together. But the car never returned and I began to crack. It was unbearably hot, and bright enough to see all the broken glass, dirt and old paint stains on the curb. By the time an hour had passed my face was burning.

And then she arrived, wearing a patterned summer skirt and a spaghetti-strap top, carrying a heavy bag. I laughed taking the bag from her. "I thought I saw your car," I kept saying. But she'd just been stuck in traffic. She kept stroking my head saying, "You poor baby." I was inches away from crying. I pushed my face into her collar, gripped her tightly.

Inside the club we sit apart from Tristan. He doesn't know where we are but we're only 10 feet away. The club is full and people climb around us, hiding their jackets below our bench and their sweaters on the ledge above. We're cushioned and surrounded by their clothing.

Angelina and I are exhausted from dancing. Our shirts are soaked. One time she said to me: "I haven't placed any limits on you. You place limits on yourself." And to help I've been reading a book about polyamory. The book recommends that you own your decisions. No one can make you do anything. The important thing is not to get in a cycle of blame, the book says, but rather to inform your partner of your feelings. Most relationships are doomed anyway; it's their nature.