“So explain what you mean.”

“I can’t connect anymore,” she said. “I have no interest in it. Not with anyone.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked, wondering if Robin had finally told her about our trip.

She shook her head, and I wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse. At least if she was dumping me for cheating on her, I’d understand it.

Glenna said, “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m some SHPOS,” she said, using an acronym for SubHuman Piece Of Shit, a term that was used to refer to the bums who stumbled into the ER.

“Goddamnit, Glenna, tell me why you’re breaking up with me.” My anger was no longer leaden; it had sprouted wings and hovered in my chest like a predatory bird.

“I can’t. I’m not a writer. I can’t use words like you do.”

“You make it sound unfair.”

“It is. I’m being as honest as I can.”

“Honest?” I said, and the bird broke out of my chest. “You wanna be honest? Stop talking about saving Vicky, and tell me how your abortion got you even for your brother, Richard.”

“What?”

“Call Richard’s mother—what’s her name, Felice? And tell her you just did what she should’ve done.”

“Fuck! You!” she screamed.

“Tell her. Tell Richard. Tell your father. Go on. Be honest.”

“You believe that, Gordon? You’re sick.”

“Then tell me why you want me to leave.”

“I can’t do this anymore. I want it to be over.”

“Tell me why. I’ll try’n fix it.”

“I don’t want you to fix it. It’s me, Gordon. You can’t fix me.”

I was aware of what was happening, but it seemed like I was observing a conversation between two people I’d never met.

I said, “Don’t you feel anything about the abortion?”

“About what? A cellular mass?”

“Now that it’s gone, it’s a cellular mass. Before it was your child. You said it, Glenna, not me. Your child.”

There was a sudden intake of breath, as though I’d slapped her.

I said, “You think if you get rid of me, then you’ll get rid of this, too? That if I’m not here, you won’t have to think about it?”

Glenna was screaming again. “You asshole! Get out! And when you’re driving away, tell yourself how nice it is that you have nothing to do with how screwed up your life is.”

I unplugged my typewriter, snapped the case shut, then began stuffing my clothes, papers, and books into the shopping bags that Glenna kept wadded up in the closet.

As I filled the bags, things stood out in bold relief: the Revolver album cover on top of the stereo with the pen-and-inks of John, Paul, George, and Ringo; the Indian-print quilt on the bed; the rose on the desk; and the framed Picasso drawing on the wall.

Gazing at the curves of Femme, I recalled the inscription Glenna had written on the cardboard backing—her loving assurance that I had nothing to fear because ten years on we would be looking at this picture together.