A commercial comes on, a man selling dog food. I can’t just sit here and not say anything. I have to say something. But, God, it hurts to.

“I know,” I say. It’s almost the same as saying nothing. It doesn’t mean anything.

We’ve been married for twenty-three years.

“You don’t know,” she says. “You don’t know the things that go through my mind.”

I know what she’s going to say. I know the things going through her mind. She’s seeing me on top of her with her legs over my shoulders, her legs locked around my back. But she won’t take her gown off anymore. She’ll just push it up. She never takes her gown off, doesn’t want me to see. I know what will happen. I can’t do anything about it. Before long she’ll be over here rubbing on me, and if I don’t start, she’ll stop and wind up crying in the bathroom.

“Why don’t you have a drink?” I say. I wish she’d have a drink. Or go to sleep. Or just watch the movie with me. Why can’t she just watch the movie with me?

“I should have just died,” she says. “Then you could have gotten you somebody else.”

I guess maybe she means somebody like the friendly woman with the nice house and the nice nipples.

I don’t know. I can’t find a comfortable place for my neck.

“You shouldn’t say that.”

“Well it’s true. I’m not a whole woman anymore. I’m just a burden on you.”

“You’re not.”

“Well you don’t want me since the operation.”

She’s always saying that. She wants me to admit it. And I don’t want to lie anymore, I don’t want to spare her feelings anymore, I want her to know I’ve got feelings too and it’s hurt me almost as bad as it has her. But that’s not what I say. I can’t say that.

“I do want you,” I say. I have to say it. She makes me say it.

“Then prove it,” she says. She comes close to the bed and she leans over me. She’s painted her brows with black stuff and her face is made up to where I can hardly believe it.

“You’ve got too much makeup on,” I whisper.

She leaves. She’s in the bathroom scrubbing. I can hear the water running. Ray’s got the blind staggers. Everybody’s hiding his whiskey from him and he can’t get a drink. He’s got it bad. He’s on his way to the nuthouse.

Don’t feel like a lone ranger, Ray.