Diana dropped this verbal shitbomb right in the middle of the oxtail-vegetable soup. He used perhaps a teaspoon of freshly grated horseradish in each of his bowls. She had caught him staring slackjawed at the ceiling with his spoon suspended over the bowl. His eyes dropped to hers, viewing her almost as an attractive stranger.

“Did I hear you correctly?”

“I don’t know. What did I say?”

“That your father was buying classic cars as a hedge against inflation.”

“I said you were showing all the signs of a classic depression.”

“You said symptoms. I heard you the first time.”

“It’s no laughing matter, Johnny. I think you need professional help.”

“A whore? A psychiatrist?”

“I talked to a doctor friend to confirm my suspicions. He agreed.”

“You talked to some fucking sawboner about me? How dare you.”

“I needed to talk to somebody. I took the liberty of making an appointment for you on Friday.”

“Not a chance. Cancel it. Is this doctor buddy someone you’re screwing at lunch hours?”

“Very paranoid and not very funny. You’ve been dawdling for months. You’re not happy up here and maybe we should move back downstate where there are more opportunities….”

“Not a fucking chance. They’re not driving me out of here.”

“No one’s trying to drive you anywhere. You go to the grocery store and cook dinner. That’s it.”

“You don’t like your dinners?”

“That’s not what I mean. You’re defensive.”

“Not an odd move under attack. I suggest you stick to twirling guts and avoid cheap psychologizing. Remember your specialty is the body not the mind. You know how cows think, not humans.”

The veiled reference to her farm background sent a full bowl of soup into his face. She stomped toward him and hissed into his face.

“You stupid fucking jerk.”

Some of the soup drizzled down his neck to his tummy. He dammed it there with a palm while wiping barley, celery, tomato, a shred of meat from his face. He heard Diana race up the stairs to her secret room. The door locked with a clack. He went to the bathroom in a daze, washed up, changed his shirt and combed his hair. What to do next? He put on his overcoat and walked up the stairs. Utterly without intention, he delivered a karate kick with all his weight, exploding the secret door off its hinges. There was a scream. He didn’t look in.

On the way to the bowling alley a single tear fell. He stopped at Dick’s Pour House for two quick doubles. His heart was thumping unnaturally and he reflected that his life insurance was up to date. Two hundred grand worth. Diana would be happier without him. She would probably marry a doctor.