Sylvia got up and walked to the window, her shoulders rounded and her head slung low.

She seemed so frail to him, and he began to feel sorry for her, but his anger overrode his affection. His face bore a faint smile, but his victory felt hollow, like that of a boxer who has killed his opponent in the ring. He had to face the possibility that he had perhaps gone too far, that there were limits in even the most savage battles. So he walked over to her and stood behind her, wondering what to do next. Speak to her? Touch her? His hand reached out and touched her shoulder.

“Take it off,” she said stonily.

He kept it there, wanting to maintain some kind of connection between them.

“Take it off,” she repeated. “I’m a whore, remember. Why would you want to touch a whore?”

Earnestly wanting to defuse the tension, but wary of losing his edge, he decided to be philosophical. Maybe it was the right philosophy but just spoken in the wrong voice to the wrong person. Or maybe the air was so flammable that any admixture of right and wrong ingredients would have had the same result.

“Cause we’re both whores,” he replied.

She whipped around to confront him and her hand accidentally smacked him in the mouth, splitting his lip. And before he could stop himself he had slapped her in the face.

Whap! Bap! She took the lick and hit him back.

Then they froze. Eye to eye they stared. Neither one evincing fear, pain, or remorse, anger or love. Just resolution. Without shifting her stare, Sylvia slid the ring off her finger and pressed it into Lewis’s palm. He closed his fingers around it.

“So that’s it, huh?”

“I guess,” she answered.

They stood there for a minute. Then began to cry.

Bundled in a hooded parka, Sylvia walked him to his car, where they stood quietly as it began to sleet.

After he left she went back to her apartment and made some tea, then sat on the couch with her legs beneath her and watched TV. How long would it have taken her to leave Lewis if they hadn’t fought? she wondered. Another month? After two years of marriage? Around their seventh anniversary? Then a more immediate question arose. How would she handle the news of her breakup with Lewis? Tell people before they asked? Or could she trust them to be delicate and not inquire?

She continued to watch TV but it wasn’t distracting her enough, so she called Diego. He was out, so she called Claire.

“Can I call you back?” Claire asked as soon as Sylvia said hello. “I’m on the phone long distance with Ian.”

“Okay,” Sylvia replied. “Call me.”

When Claire mentioned Ian, Sylvia remembered that he’d sworn her to secrecy about Lewis and Margaret and the loan. Fuck, she’d broken her promise too, which was a screwed-up thing to do—understandable, but screwed-up nonetheless. She decided how to handle that situation in an instant, though: shut the hell up until something came out of it. Ian was too unpredictable.