Big Week by Zadie Smith
He sat in the dive bar on Sherman, looking out at his house, on the other side of the street. The panels were buckled along the porch, and deep, ugly breaches scored the white clapboard, but come spring he would fix it all up for her, repaint and reseal, whatever needed doing. That went for the oil tank, too. He would keep doing whatever was necessary around the place, because he loved her, and she still loved him—in the largest sense of that word—and people would just have to wrap their heads around that fact.