It is late on a spring afternoon in Brooklyn. Sarah sits on her balcony, sipping a glass of wine, gazing down at the neighbors laughing on their brownstone stoops. Her husband comes home. As most battered and seaworthy veterans of relationships eventually know, this is not the best response to a mate who feels herself to be in a sudden existential quandary, who, anointed by a breeze, is looking for something more than just another late-night superhero movie and familiar takeout sandwich. Bad though a spouse may be who dictates the marital laws, equally awful is the passive partner who simply goes along for every ride. In the interminable course of a single night, Sarah and Jay do and do not make it to Central Park for a picnic, they do and do not enjoy sex in a dark knot of trees in the park, they do and do not endure dinner at a mediocre Italian restaurant, and — finally — they do and do not stay together.