I can feel you looking at me, OK? I don’t even have to turn around to know that you’re doing it. I sense the heat coming off your eyes. You’re like something out of a science fiction film, with laser beams shooting out. You’re only making yourself look silly now, so do what you want. I’m not going yet. Listen, how many stores did I have to wander through this afternoon, huh? How many? I know it’s not the same thing, not the exact same thing but I’m just pointing out to you that I did that, dutifully walked along there next to you and said how nice you looked and carried the bags and dug around on the shelves for the match to those shoes and I didn’t say a thing. Not a goddamn thing the whole time. Even this place was your idea, remember? I just wanted a sandwich. So if I happen to stumble onto a little pleasure for five seconds, to find something that grabs my fancy during the middle of a long Sunday, I don’t know why on earth that should bother you at all. Not one tiny bit. He’s paying their check now, paying the bill, so they’re just about through. I’ll be outside in five minutes, so go have the valet pull the car around. I’ll be there in … less than that; I’m three minutes away. Please just do it, don’t give me the turned-up eyes or the “big sigh” shit because I just might scream if you do. Scream like a little schoolgirl if I hear one more of those puffs of displeasure slip out of that mouth of yours. Just go. Oh, see, now I missed something, because of you. There now, he’s … look. Look at that.

“… I don’t wanna fight with you.”

“I don’t either.”

“You know I don’t like it and it makes me feel sad.”

“Me, too.”

“I know, so let’s …”

“Fine.”

“We can talk more about it at home. Later or something.”

“That’s good.”

“I feel like …”