Not that she cared about Ned Spires, she did not. Not really.

But her pride, her soul. As if he’d spilled a drink carelessly, making a joke of it.

Again the lowered voice. Chastised, frightened when he realized who it was.

… begging you Juliana, please don’t. I love you—I will always love you, but—you must know—this is a very difficult time in my marriage …

Juliana laughed. It was not her, this was not Juliana Regan, this furious person.

… your marriage! How dare you speak of your marriage! What of the marriage between us—you and me? We are married too …

For it was true. Ned Spires knew it was true. Hadn’t he said it so many times. Hadn’t his poetry claimed this.

It was a desperate fact, Juliana loved Ned Spires deeply. It was a sudden fact, a surprise to her. Like being shown a lab report—yes, a malignancy.

Unexpected, yet as soon as you see it … Of course.

Juliana could not bear to live without Ned Spires. Her very soul, her pride had been ravaged by the man.

But she would not call him again. If he tried to call her, she would not answer. Calmly counting two, three, four nights, he would be lying awake and anxious and (just possibly) he’d left the phone off the hook. And let his cell phone lose its power so that she could not call his cell phone either. (She’d tried. Once.) But Juliana was patient, she could wait. Patient, cunning, intent upon revenge.

It mattered to her that her daylight self, her professional, paralegal self, was an admirable person. Everyone agreed: Juliana was wonderful. Juliana was fired with idealism. All the lawyers liked Juliana, knew they could rely upon Juliana, admired her for her intelligence, idealism. All of them knew that she was taking night courses at John Jay. But after dark, another Juliana emerged, of whom they knew nothing.

She was not responsible, Juliana thought. It was the condition of the human soul. This revelation of the daytime self, the nighttime self. The perfect clarity that vodka best provides.

And so, she calls his number just one more time. The forbidden number.

Having poured herself a drink. A full-size glass, but only half full.

This time the wife answers, hesitantly. Fearfully. Yes? What? Who is this?

Juliana has not heard this voice before but recognizes it immediately.

Calmly asking if Ned Spires is there, she needs to speak with Ned Spires, she is one of those whom his poetry has touched.

A former colleague at the university, an adjunct instructor.

In fact she is in danger of her life, she must speak with Ned Spires, it is an urgent matter …

(But why has Juliana said this? She has no idea, the unexpected words have sprung from her mouth.)

At the other end of the line, the receiver clatters onto a surface—slipped from the woman’s fingers.