“I don’t get it,” he said.
“What’s not to get?” she said. “M y God, you’ve only been watching me go through this for months.”
“Yeah, but usually I get it. But here . . .” he gesticulated disdainfully at the page, “It’s what? A dog drinking coffee? That’s funny?”
“Have you been drinking again?” She stood up from the table, taking The New Yorker with her and leaving it beside her on the kitchen counter as she washed out her coffee cup. Her back was ramrod-straight.
“If I was, it would be funnier than that cartoon.”
There was a silence, a detente, if you will, during which neither of them spoke.
“What, do you think it’s funny?”
“You’re just angry that they rejected your story,” she said, “which, for the record, was a piece of shit story that they ought to have rejected. I mean, if you’re going to imitate Nabokov, you could at least be original about it.” She turned from the sink to look at him, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke his way.
“At least I got a response; mine’s not mouldering on a slush pile in Wallace Stegner’s old office.” He picked his nose casually, as if the barb were as routine as wiping his ass.
“You are such an asshole sometimes,” she said. “My father was right about you.”
“Yeah, right, like he was right about savings and loans.” He looked up, over the top of his glasses. “You know what they say: you marry a man like your father. I don’t claim to be nice or honest, but at least I’ve got style.”
“Yes, well, Daddy had the provost’s office at Princeton, you prick, which you conveniently forget when it suits you. Where is your office again—oh yes, in our basement, next to the garage.”
“Same difference. They’re both equally useful for blow jobs from undergrads.”
“You wish,” she said. “The last time you got a blow job was what—1987?”
“Now that’s funny,” he said, “at least, funnier than a dog drinking coffee.”

“Well, I don’t know why you brought him here. For one thing, this is the first place they’ll look when they notice he’s missing. For another, we spent all week picking out these carpets. Not to mention the fact that you’re the one who ran off with him in the first place.”

“I didn’t know where else to go; what else to do, so I came back here to you.” Tammy Rae said, still staring out the window with her back to her husband of 7 years. “Besides, I said I was sorry. I guess I got the itch. I told you when we picked this out that I preferred the soft green berber rug with the rose border, it just seemed more classy.”

“You got the itch. Well, it seems to me you might not get that particular itch quite as often if you couldn’t always find someone to scratch it. And if you couldn’t always come running back to me when you were done.” He crushed out his cigar in the ashtray, a massive ebony replica of an elephant’s foot that occupied one corner of the antique desk and fixed his wife with an appraising look. “Maybe I won’t help you. Maybe I tell you that this time, you’ve gone too far.”

She turned from the window, stepping ungracefully over a large lump rolled into a blue plastic tarp. “I know I’ve really fucked up this time, but I love you Billy. I never meant to hurt you. Please just help me this one last time.” Standing at the bar, she poured two fingers of bourbon into a glass and carried it to the desk, offering it as an apology to her husband. “What are we going to do Billy?”

“ ‘We’ aren’t going to do anything.” He smiled coldly, swirling the glass. “I’m going to make some phone calls. And you,” he said, getting to his feet and walking to the door, “are going to go upstairs and wait for me.” He opened the door for her. “This one last time, as you said.”

“But Billy…” she wailed. The cold gleam in his eyes told her to do as he instructed and let him deal with the details of getting rid of the body.

Jarod Jefferson IV walked out of his office at Pink and Persimmon publishing, and he wondered why nobody at work seemed to take him seriously. He was good at his job, and he really did have ambition. It wasn't his fault that he was the sole heir to the Jefferson fortune. It wasn't his fault that his family had made a killing in the shipping business generations ago and that now he was rolling in money. And it wasn't his fault that he was incredibly attractive - both to women and to men. And all of the things that his wife blamed him for? Those weren't his fault either.

Sylvia and he had been so in love when they met three years ago. It had been a whirl-wind romance. But now, she was just angry all of the time. Tonight, though, he would make that up to her. Tonight, he would give her the gorgeous coat that all of the women in New York would give their right eye for, according to Vogue Magazine, that is. She wouldn't be able to stay angry at him then. She'd have to forgive him. Jarod let himself into the penthouse and called out.

"Honey, I'm home! And I've got a present for you!"
"Upstairs." It was more of a statement than an invitation. Not even a command, just a matter-of-fact observation of her whereabouts.
"Darling, I know things have been rough lately, but I want you to know just how much I love you." Jarod beamed as he climbed the stairs and entered their boudoir.
"Thank you, cherie," Sylvia said absently, as she turned to greet him. Then, eyes wide, she saw the baby seal fur coat he presented to her. "What. Is. THAT." The anger seethed behind her flashing eyes, disguised behind the calm in her voice.
"Darling, I found this treasure for you, as you are my treasure."
"To show your love for me, you rammed an electrocution device into a poor baby seal and gave it 10,000 volts?!" She sobbed openly now. "You are cruel and insane and I can't believe you would do this!"
"What are you talking about? I love you!" Jefferson stormed across the room and grabbed Sylvia by the shoulders. "Why can't I make you happy? Just why?"
Sylvia looked up at him, with the big eyes of a small, frightened animal - eyes like, in fact, the eyes of the baby seals that died for this attrocious token of Jefferson's love for her.
"Who are you, Jefferson? I don't even know who you are?!" she screamed, pulling away from him. "I love animals, and I fight every day, as you well know, on their behalf in my work as a pro bono lawyer for PETA. How could you ever think I would want this, or appreciate it? You are a monster! I loathe this coat and I loathe you!"
Sylvia ran from the room, leaving Jefferson standing in the middle of the room, alone. He put the coat to his chiseled cheek. It was the softest thing he'd ever felt.