“I’m not mad. I’m in a perfectly happy mood, you asshole.”

“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.”

“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.”

“I’ve learned to get really good at this—say one thing when I’m thinking about something else, act like I’m listening when I’m not, pretend to be calm and happy when really I’m freaking out. It’s one of the skillsyou perfect as you get older. You have to learn that people are always listening.”

“I’m sorry, Eve. I love you. I’m not letting you do this.”She screamed and battered harder. “You love me? You asshole! Let me go!”

“I’m sure you think you’re a very nice guy, but from where I’m sitting at the moment all I see is an asshole. Yes, you’re a very good-looking asshole, with a great body and handsome face and nice tan and all that, but do you know what the best thing about assholes is? When they keep quiet and go away.”