“See, Don, I have this question, and I hope you’ll be honest with me.”
He pulled at the end of his eyebrow. “I think you know you can count on my honesty.”
“Can I?” I asked with an edge. “All right, then tell me: How long have you been fucking me?”
That caused him to stop tugging his brow. “I don’t know what you’re saying—”
“Because if I was going to fuck you,” I interrupted, “I’d get a bottle of gin, some Frank Sinatra music…and a crash cart for the heart attack you’d have. But you, Don, you’ve been fucking me for years now, and I haven’t gotten any liquor, music, flowers,
candy, or anything!”