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“—just can’t stand it,” she was saying. “I can’t take it anymore.”

A man’s voice said, “Did you tell him?”

“I can’t talk to him.”

“Don’t you think you should?” the man said. He had a deep, confidential voice. He sounded like an older guy. But then, I was an older guy too. I was fifteen years older than she was. My next big one was five-oh.

Janis was still pacing. “I’ve tried to talk to him, Armand. You know I’ve tried.”

I thought, Armand? Who the fuck is Armand? I started to sweat. I took off my sports coat so I wouldn’t crease it. Sometimes when I sweat I get creases at the elbow and the shoulder. Then I have to get it pressed. I slipped the jacket over the back of the kitchen chair.

“I’m tired of faking it,” she was saying.

“Faking what?”

“Faking everything. Faking conversations, faking smiles, faking orgasms. Faking everything.”

Armand chuckled. “Everything?”

“He likes it when I scream,” Janis said. “So I scream. What the fuck.”

I was sweating more. I wiped my forehead. I felt dizzy. I hated him for that knowing chuckle. They were still talking but I couldn’t hear them for a while. I got the bottle of scotch down from above the refrigerator. I noticed I had only three bottles left. I twisted off the cap. I took a slug and felt it burn all the way down.

“He’s such an old lady,” Janis was saying. “I mean it’s his house, he’s been here forever, but he won’t let me change anything, or move anything. Everything has to be just so.”

“I thought he chased around. I heard he was a big ladies’ man.”

“Yeah, well, maybe back when. All I know is, nobody can move Mom’s picture on the piano. I can tell you that.”

I was looking at the piano in the living room. I hadn’t remembered the picture was even there. Why didn’t she tell me if she didn’t like it? Hell, I didn’t care. My mother was in a home, for Christ’s sake. She didn’t care either.

I took another slug, and didn’t feel it. So I took another to keep it company. My stomach was warm and I coughed. She heard it and looked over.

“I got to go,” she said quickly, and there was a dial tone. I clicked the speakerphone off as she came in. “Very nice, Ray,” she said. “Very fucking classy. What’re you, investigating me now?”

I said, “You want to move the picture, go ahead and move it. I don’t give a shit.”

“I’m leaving,” she said, sweeping into the bedroom. “So why don’t you just give me an hour alone? Be civilized about it.”

“I don’t feel civilized.”

“Then have another belt.”

“Fuck you.”

“What’re you going to do now, tough guy, beat me up?”

“No,” I said, “I’m not going to beat you up.”

“That’s good, Ray.”

“I’m not even going to touch you.”

“That’s good,” she said, “because if you do, Ray, I’ll have your ass in jail so fucking fast you won’t know what hit you.”

“I said I won’t touch you.”

“And I heard you. We’ve communicated. Now just go away, will you?” she said. She slammed the bedroom door behind her.

I said, “Who the fuck is Armand?”

She didn’t answer. I was standing there in the kitchen with my half-unbuttoned shirt and my tie streaked with blood. I took another slug, buttoned my shirt, and left.

I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I just drove around the neighborhood. The scotch sat hard in my stomach, turning sour. I stopped at a 7-Eleven and bought a pack of Marlboros. I stood outside on the pavement and watched the guys going in to buy Lotto tickets. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, and got a newspaper from the sidewalk dispenser. I sat in the car and flipped through the sections, not really reading. I checked my watch. I’d given her twenty minutes. I figured that was enough.

I wanted to go back and argue with Janis some more; I was feeling like an argument. I turned the key in the ignition, drove a block, then pulled over and parked again. The more I thought about her, the more I decided I didn’t give a damn. I’d always known those screams were fake. That’s what you get with an actress. A lot of rich, fake emotion. And a thirty-five-year-old broad