“Didn’t you see how she was looking at you?”
I drove on, the road nearly empty, my brain processing friction, velocity, angles, momentum, speed. The calculus of a body, moving through space. Leaving point A, heading for point B. “52nd Street” blared from the stereo.
“Who?” That seemed safe.
“That woman. Jessica.” My wife spat the words out.
Nick’s assistant, Jessica. Jessica with the doe eyes and low cut top and too high heels.
“How was she looking at me?” There was only one place conversations like this ended.
“She wants you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m married, for one thing. ”
“Oh, she does. She wants you. You don’t know. You don’t understand how women are. You don’t know what we’re capable of.” That was true.
“I don’t think she’s like that.”
“We’re all like that,” my wife said firmly.
“I doubt it. Not her, ” I said softly. I accelerated a little bit more.
“You never think women do anything wrong,” she told me. “Never. I wouldn’t trust her with you for one second. I’ll slit her throat if she touches you.”
I thought she was wrong, but I had been married too long to say that.
“Would you?” she said, rubbing her nyloned foot. Her heels were high, too.
“No. Of course not.” I pulled through a stoplight, glancing around for cops.
“You know you love the knife,” Billy Joel told us.