“You listen, Sylvia—”

“Lewis, don’t talk to me like that.”

“Like how?”

“In that tone.”

“What tone?”

“That man tone.”

“That’s what I am,” he replied smugly, “a man. I can’t help it.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you really are.”

“You can be such a fucking hard-headed bitch sometimes, Sylvia,” he spat. “Do you know that? Such a motherfucking bitch.”

If a string had been attached to that outburst he would’ve sucked it back into his mouth. And as soon as he said it he began to apologize. But Sylvia cut him off.

“How dare you call me a fucking bitch? And in my own house, Lewis?” she said, her voice descending to a fierce whisper. “Go and never come back. Just go.”

“Look … Syl …” he said as she got up and walked halfway to the door.

She turned around to see if he was following. He was still seated.

“Lewis … go,” she said, her eyes narrowing to cruel slits.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, as he slumped on the couch.

She frowned and turned away.

He walked up behind her and spoke to the back of her head. “I’m only trying to help, Sylvia. I’m sorry for what I said. But you really frustrate me sometimes, I mean, think, Sylvia. What if you lose your job? Would it all be worth it?”

“Who told you about my mother?”

“Does it really matter?” he replied. Gathering a bit of sarcasm, he continued, “And by the way, don’t refer to it as fact. You made it up, remember?”

“Can we stop playing games, Lewis?” she asked, ignoring his jab.

He paused for a second to see if he should tell her or not. After weighing the decision carefully, he did, believing that it would change her mind.

“The same person who told me about the receipts,” he replied.

“Who?” she asked, with an interrogative tilt of her chin. It dawned on her that she hadn’t solved that mystery either.

Lewis paused again. This time for effect.

“Virgil Pucci.”

Sylvia felt her heart explode. What treachery! What deceit! How could he? She couldn’t believe that Lewis had had the low-down, corrupted nature to discuss her business with her boss.

“Get out! Get out!” she screamed.

He tried to calm her down with words, but words were not enough.

“Get out! Get out!”

“What’s the matter with you, Sylvia?” he implored.

She stared at him in amazement, then spun around and threw herself on the couch. She couldn’t believe his nerve … asking her what was the matter with her after he’d just told her that he’d been discussing her with her boss … She looked up at him, her mouth filled with the hurt that she’d regurgitated like bile. How could he? That motherfucker … that bomboclaat!

“I hate you, Lewis,” she hissed. She said it over and over again. Harsher. Louder. Faster.

Speechless, Lewis stood watching her, understanding her rage but thinking she was overreacting, wondering if there was anything he could do to not hear her, hoping that her eruption was some kind of spontaneous scream therapy that would leave her purged afterward so they could go back to the original issue. He swallowed his pride and put on his meekest voice and tried to get her to hear him. But it was like responding to a blitzkrieg with bows and arrows. The more he tried, the more frustrated he became, and each time that he swallowed his pride it came up again with a bitter coat of bile that made it harder to keep down.