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tie, and his hair was combed. But there was something in his manner. He had a look in his eyes. A look she knew well. Back in the days when he was still her husband. When he used to drink.
    And hit her.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” he said.
    The words sent a chill down her spine. That was what he used to say years ago. When they were married. Those simple words. That escalated into arguments, no matter how hard she tried to diffuse them. Arguments that led to a slap. Or a punch. Or a kick. Followed by sobbing apologies, pleas for forgiveness, and promises to do better. The nightmare. The never-ending nightmare.
    Sherry hesitated, knowing anything she said would be wrong. As would saying nothing. Even a simple, “Hello, Dennis,” wouldn’t do. In his present state of mind he could twist and turn even the most innocuous remark.
    There was no reason for pretense. Sherry’s only course of action was the one she wished she had the strength to take throughout her whole rocky marriage. Telling him simply how she felt.
    “You shouldn’t be here, Dennis.”
    His lip curled. “Oh, really? You’ve got a lot of nerve telling me that.”
    “I’ve got a restraining order, Dennis.”
    “Of course you do. You can’t trust yourself to tell me to stay away. You know you couldn’t do it.”
    “You’re drunk.”
    “Oh, look who’s talking. How’s your head feel this morning?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “You didn’t get drunk last night? Am I misinformed?”
    “Who told you that?”
    “So, it’s true, is it?”

    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “You’re lying. Strange. Lying isn’t like you. Or is it? All those times you said nothing was going on. Maybe there really was. You just wouldn’t admit it.”
    Sherry’s head was coming off. He was right about her hangover, wrong about everything else. And here he was, back in predivorce mode, jealous, suspicious, paranoid, irrationally accusing her of assignations that had never taken place, indiscretions not committed, whipping himself into a frenzy upon getting no satisfaction, because there could be no satisfaction, only a spiraling descent into frustration and abuse.
    “Don’t touch me Dennis. If you touch me, you know what happens? Brenda dumps you, her father cuts you off, and you go to jail. I swear to God, I’ll make it happen.”
    “Bitch!” Dennis snarled. But he held his ground.
    “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to leave, and I’m going to forget you were ever here. I’m not going to report this to the police. I am going to butt out of your life. Just like you are going to butt out of mine.”
    “What about the paperboy?”
    “We’re not talking about Aaron.”
    “No. We’re talking about the guy in the bar. Does the paperboy know about the guy in the bar?”
    “Drop it, Dennis.”
    “He looked like a Jap. Is he a Jap?”
    Sherry’s face froze. “You were there?”
    “Ah, now you’ve changed you tune. Can’t deny it now, can you?
    “Dennis, you can’t follow me around.”
    “Hey, if you’re going to let yourself get picked up in a bar, and start slugging them back with some Asian playboy—”
    “It was a business deal! Didn’t you see me sign the paper?” Sherry was furious. Not at Dennis. At herself. For explaining. For answering his charges. As if he had any right to make them. As if she had anything to explain.

    Dennis had won and he knew it. His lip curled in triumph, gloating. “So why’d you have another drink? After you signed the paper?”
    “You were spying on me?”
    “We’re talking about you. After you signed the paper, you stayed and had another drink.”
    “People drink on a deal,” Sherry said, and immediately regretted it. Another justification.
    “But you had a drink,” Dennis said. “You signed the paper, you sat there, you finished your drink. Sushi-Boy ordered another.”
    “Damn it, Dennis!”
    A car pulled into the driveway. Sherry had never been so