She looked at him questioningly. His face darkened and he stood up. “She wasn’t wearing underwear,” he said, enunciating his words carefully. “The camera was shooting from below. That’s all. They’ve made thousands of prints of this particular strip of film, and the dancer has taken off for Brazil.”

“I don’t see what the story is.”

“All right. There isn’t a story, then.”

“You spent the whole day looking at the picture?”

“Hardly the whole day. It doesn’t take long to look at something like that. What the hell’s eating you?”

“And does she look different from other women? Was it wonderful, all of you staring at that?”

“Yes. It was wonderful!” he shouted. He took another drink, then stared at her. He looked, she thought, confused, and for the first time since he’d arrived, she felt she’d won a small victory. He was watching her intently.

“Who’s the letter from?” she asked.

“A friend in New York,” he replied. “Come to bed.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“I’m tired and I’m hungry.”

“I bought some things to eat,” he said. “We can’t go to a restaurant every night.” She walked very slowly over to the counter where he’d left groceries. He said nothing. She wondered how far she could push him.

There were oranges, canned luncheon meat, bread, a small piece of butter wrapped in wax paper, a bottle of milk. She prepared supper. After they’d eaten it in total silence, he asked her if she wanted to go to a movie. She was too tired, she said. Later, he went out to buy cigarettes. Annie read the letter.

Most of it referred to people she didn’t know, events in which she took no interest, but the last few sentences were about her. “Oh, Walter,” she read, “for God’s sake, what have you gotten yourself into with that little blonde filly? Cradle snatching! You’re not serious, are you? Come back here before somebody eats you up alive!” It was signed “Lily.”

She didn’t mention the letter until they were in bed, the room in darkness except for the light filtering in beneath the window shade. “Who is Lily?” she whispered. There was no answer, only Walter’s even breathing. “Lily!” she cried. Walter sat up, turned on a light and reached for a cigarette.

“You read the letter.”

“Yes.”

“Lily, and a friend of hers, Beth, helped me when I was out of work. They’re nice girls. They were nice to me.”

“I’m the blonde filly?”

He smiled. “Yes, Annie.”

“What did you write them about me?”

“Not much.”

“But it makes me feel terrible!” she burst out.

“Terrible!” he mocked.

“Did that man give you one of the pictures of that Brazilian dancer?”