“You just wait till the big finish,” he murmurs. “The audience’ll go batty.” He’s already visualizing the adulation heaped upon him, among his few priorities as of late.

I cut short the vision. “I presume I won’t need a fresh set of keys?”

“Huh? Yeah, yeah. Already handled.” It’s a civil way to address the topic of regurgitation. “And yes, Fenna, they’ll be washed up good as new.”

His thwarting of my next question, fingering me as predictable, is just fine by me, as little good in my life has come from surprises. But it’s the bother in his tone, an edge he’s become so quick to employ, that grates on my ears. As if I’m a wife nagging over a chore as trivial as wiping his shoes at the door. Still, I refuse to give him the satisfaction of vexing me—more than he already has.

“Dandy. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish dressing up.”

He obliges by rising, only to stop, bemused. “You sayin’…you got some fancy plans?”

I realize I misspoke. My senses remain frazzled, all by his doing. “No—I meant, to finish getting dressed.”

He lifts a brow, probing like a nosy brother.

“I’m simply going home,” I insist.

Home. It sounds lovelier than the reality of my latest boardinghouse in a ceaseless string of rented rooms. On the rosy side, it’s several city blocks from Charles’s motel, a sizable distance presently welcome.

At my unflinching gaze, he looks convinced, then inspired. “Ya know, if you’re game, we could paint the town. We got a half day off tomorrow, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” And that break is just as welcome.

“I’ve found a great jazz joint—the Tin Kettle. It’s a real gasser. Or we could hit a supper club if you’re hungry. This is New York, after all. Lots of pretty swell things to do.”

Sure, and for a pretty penny.

“I’ll pass. You enjoy though.”

His shoulders sag and his smile goes weary. “Yeah, well. Can’t fault me for tryin’.” My answer isn’t a shock to either of us. “Want company for the walk back?”

“Thanks,” I say, “but I’m fine on my own.”

After a beat, he nods. “You always are.” He might have intended the comment as lighthearted, maybe even snide. What emerged, paired with his deep-set amber eyes, reflects more of a sense of hurt.

I stiffen as he heads for the door. The rift between us, ever growing these days, feels wide and ragged as a canyon. Partnership aside, we used to share a friendly comfort, often trading advice and opinions—his generally on food and politics, mine on his fashion picks and potential dates. Of course, that was before the girls more closely resembled conquests, and certainly before his bloated ego made him averse to any insight I’m inclined to give.