“If you’re mad that I kissed you, I won’t apologize for that.”“No, I’m mad you stopped.” Her face flushed. “I meant,” she tried to rephrase, “I’m mad you left the way you did.”

“But I don’t want to go among mad people," Alice remarked."Oh, you can’t help that," said the Cat: "we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.""How do you know I’m mad?" said Alice."You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn’t have come here.”

“What’s with her?” says the painter. “She’s mad because she’s a woman,” Jon says. This is something I haven’t heard for years, not since high school. Once it was a shaming thing to say, and crushing to have it said about you, by a man. It implied oddness, deformity, sexual malfunction. I go to the living room doorway. “I’m not mad because I’m a woman,” I say. “I’m mad because you’re an asshole.”

“I’m mad at you because I love you, not because I want you dead.”

“I went mad before he did, you killed everything in me. Kiss me,will you. Stop defending yourself.”

“I have to ask you something—promise me you’ll be open-minded?” She looked tentative.He nodded.“I’ve got some mad skills. Some mad sex skills. I want to do stuff to you, without you worrying about me.” She looked at him with one eye closed.“I can never promise to stop worrying about you,” Cole said, smiling. “You’re all I think about. But I’m sure my body is up to this task. Do as you must. I won’t fight you off,” he said with a resolute sigh.”