Patty had been awakened by the sticking sound of the icebox door opening and closing. Her droopy eyes were rimmed green with mucus and she looked pretty beat, but she knew it was a good bet I’d turn her on to a late-night snack. Instead, Dildo’s date was knocking her all over the room. “Come on, you ugly boxer,” Bunny said, leading with a left jab. “You look like you ran into a Mack truck. Come on, boxer”—Wham!—“Come on, you old boxer”—Slap-a-dadap-dap!—“Come on, boxer”—Bang!—“Come on, yeah, come on”—Wap! She continued to batter Patty with a flurry of backhands.

“Hey, Bunny,” I said, “I’d stop antagonizing that dog if I were you. She might snap at you.”

Bunny dropped her dukes and gave me the once over. “Whoooaaa,” she said. “Antagonize, the big words. Where’d you dig that one up, in the library or something?”

I put my hand on her leg, just above the knee.

“Guess the name of the state I’m thinking of,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Bunny yelled.

“Shhh. Just try to guess the name of the state I’m thinking of.”

“What the fuck, there’s fifty-two friggin’s states, Bimbo. How the hell am I—”

“Okay, okay, I’ll give you a clue. It’s an eastern state.”

“Oh. California?”

“Wrong.” I moved my fingers up a little. “That’s West Coast, anyway. I’m thinking East Coast.”

“Oh, ummm … Washington?”

“Nope.” The hand went up another couple inches. “Bunny, we live on the East Coast.”

She guessed a few midwestern states, and soon my hand was all the way up to her crotch. I started rubbing, and she kept on guessing.

“I know!” she said. “New England!”

“No, listen—”

“It’s got be!” she yelled. “We live in New England.”

“Keep it down. Forget it. It’s a lousy game anyway.”

“That was it, wasn’t it? Come on, that was it, right?”

She was practically screaming.

“Yeah, shh, okay, okay, clam up. That was it. You win.”

I was bummed out but determined to make the most of the situation. I turned off the lights. Bunny didn’t object. Soon we were swapping spit. I was pleased with the situation; it had even stopped snowing. Then it happened. While my lips were working their way down her neck and my fingers were kneading her cow-like breasts, Bunny decided to drain her nasal passages. She snorted, grunted, growled, and ultimately coughed up a bronchial biscuit. There was an abrupt halt in the action as I wondered what she was going to do with the thing. Would she spit it outside? Spit it in the house? Or would she dare … ? In the meantime, Bunny cradled a multi-colored quag between the tip of her tongue and her lower lip.

Finally, she said, “Be wight back.”

She went into the bathroom.

I sat on the sofa listening to the deep rumble of her throat.

“Hurry up!” I whispered frantically as she stepped out of the bathroom. “Out the front!” I grabbed her arm and, looking anxiously toward the old man’s room, rushed her to the door.