I go in the bathroom, and when I look down at my hands they’re covered with more than just red splotches. I take my coat off and pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt up and can’t believe when I see at least a thousand tiny bumps covering my arms. What the hell is this shit? Nerves. That’s all. Nerves. I look in the mirror. My face is clear but my neck is getting red. I lift my pants up but my legs is so dark I can’t hardly see these bumps. I feel ’em. Calamine lotion should do the trick. I shake my head back and forth in the mirror: See what men can do? Make you break out in fucking hives!

I pretend like there ain’t no bumps on my body when I come out of that bathroom and head toward the parking lot, but then I see this purple velvet hat staring me in the face that would go perfect with a purple-and-orange suit I been wanting to wear to church. I buy it. But I can’t carry no hatbox, so I take off my white ski cap, stuff it in my purse and put the other one on my head. I know I must look like a damn fool, but I don’t care.

I throw the bags in the back seat of the truck and get another bottle out. This one is Stolichnaya. They all do the trick. I finish it, take my red leather gloves outta my pockets, and put ’em on. On the way home, I take ’em off, ’cause they’re irritating my skin, even though I keep telling myself I don’t itch, and at the same time I’m trying to figure out the best way to tell Al he’s gotta go:

“You can take more than your fishing pole with you on Friday when you leave. Take all your shit. And I hope you catch more than you bargained for. I’ve had it, Al. In damn near twenty years of marriage, I ain’t never even thought about cheating on you. Even when we been pissed off at each other the thought never even crossed my mind. Why do men have to cheat? Why ain’t one woman enough?”

And I’ll walk away, ’cause I know he ain’t gon’ have no answer. But, then again, maybe I just shouldn’t say nothing. No. Gotta say something. Oh. I know:

“Talked to Smitty’s wife and looks like he’s not doing any fishing this weekend. Did you know that?”

And he’ll play dumb. And I’ll say: “Turns out, Smitty’s uncle died and he’s building a shed in the backyard this weekend, so looks like he ain’t never had no plans to do no fishing. What you think about that, Albert Toussaint? Who you gon’ go fishing with now? Tell me that.”

And he’ll stand there looking like the Creole he is, and I’ll have to stop myself from picking up something and hurting him.

When I pull into the garage, he’s standing in the doorway, waiting for me. This is good. Perfect. ’Cause the kids won’t have to hear. I hope he comes out to the truck. That would be even better. My hands grip the steering wheel. As a matter of fact, I have to stop myself from squeezing it. Here he is.