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The night train to Rome was almost empty when we boarded in Vienna. There were no sleeping cars available, so we took a regular compartment with six seats—three across and three across, with a window and a small folding table. The seats were hard, but there were only two of us, we were exhausted, and in a strangely quiet way, we were content.

My wife sat across from me, her legs crossed, the lights dimmed, the aisle empty. The train started moving—that deep, rolling hum I've always loved. So different from the car we had decided not to take this time. Twelve hours of travel, planned to be relaxing, in contrast to the intense concentration required behind the wheel, especially as we glided into the night. We would arrive in Rome relaxed, a kind of second honeymoon, now that we had been married for almost two decades.

We said little—but not because we had nothing to say to each other. It was because we were a little tired, wanted to get away from everyday life, relax. I looked at her. In her early fifties, long dark hair tied in a loose bun, a few strands of gray hair mixed in. Her summer dress was simple, but it outlined her figure all the more clearly because it was light and had a wonderfully erotic hint of transparency. Or rather, the dress let the light flood through, always offering a glimpse of her body. She still had that insecurity in her body language that almost no one noticed anymore—but I saw it. I knew it. And I knew that she never completely stopped paying attention to strangers' glances—even if she didn't admit it to herself. ...

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