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later, heard the shower running.
    She found some aspirin in the cupboard and took two with a full glass of water, then washed her face and hands in the kitchen sink, then went down into the basement.
    In his den, she stared at the rifles and shotguns, all unlocked now. She stood there a full minute, then turned away and went into the workshop. She found a push broom and shovel and went back up to the kitchen.
    Annie made coffee, heated the frying pan, added bacon, swept up the plaster and put it out into the trash can, then washed the kitchen counter and floor.
    Cliff came down, dressed in a clean uniform, and she noticed that he entered the kitchen carefully, his gun belt and holster slung over his shoulder and his hand casually on the pistol grip. He sat at the table, his gun belt looped over the chair instead of on the wall peg. Before he could react, she grabbed the gun belt and put it on the peg. She said, “No guns at my table.”
    The moment was not lost on Cliff Baxter, and, after an initial look of panic, he forced a stupid grin.
    Annie poured him juice and coffee, then fried his eggs with potatoes and bacon, and put the toast in. She served him his breakfast, and he said, “Sit down.”
    She sat across from him.
    He smiled as he ate and said, “Lose your appetite?”
    “I ate.”
    He spoke as he chewed. “I’m gonna leave the guns and the ammo and everything down there. More coffee.”
    She stood and poured him more coffee.
    He continued, “Because I don’t think you got it in you to kill me.”
    “If I did, I could buy a gun anywhere.”
    “Yeah, true. But you can keep buyin’ guns and stealin’ guns and borrowin’ guns, and it don’t matter. I’m not afraid of you, darlin’.”
    She knew he was trying to reclaim his manhood after the pants wetting. She let him do what he had to do so he’d just get out of the house.
    He continued, “I went for my gun, didn’t I? I didn’t have a chance in hell, but I went for it.”
    “Yes.” True, she thought, he was more stupid than she’d imagined. An intelligent man knew he had at least a fifty-fifty chance of talking his wife out of shooting him, and less than a million-to-one chance of drawing against a pointed and cocked shotgun. But Cliff Baxter was short on brains and long on ego. One day, she hoped, that would get him killed.
    He said, “You’re wonderin’ if I’d of killed you.”
    “I don’t really care.”
    “What do you mean, you don’t care? Of course you care. You got kids. You got family.” He smiled. “You got me.” He patted her hand across the table. “Hey, I knew you wasn’t gonna kill me. You know why? ’Cause you love me.”
    Annie took a breath and fought down a scream.
    He tapped his fork on her nose, and continued, “You see, you’re still jealous. Now, that means you still love me. Right?”
    Annie was emotionally drained, exhausted, and her shoulder throbbed. She had nothing left in her except the presence of mind to say what he wanted to hear. She said, “Yes.”
    He smiled. “But you hate me, too. Now, I’m gonna tell you something—there’s a thin line between love and hate.”
    She nodded, as though this were some new revelation to her. Cliff was always mouthing idiotic clichés and aphorisms, as if he’d just made them up, and it never occurred to him that these were not original insights into the human mind.
    “Remember that next time you’re pissed off at me.”
    She smiled, and he realized he’d used a bad choice of words. She said, “I’m going to the cleaners this morning. Do you have anything to go?”
    He leaned toward her and said, “You watch yourself.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And cut the sir shit.”
    “Sorry.”
    He mopped up his yolks with his toast and said, “You call old Willie to fix up the ceiling.”
    “Yes.”
    He sat back and looked at her. “You know, I break my ass to give you things most people in this town ain’t got. Now, what do you want me to do? Retire, hang around