Chapter 3
“Well?” I said, my second act done, dress off, makeup nothing but a smudged memory. I was back at home, naked in a tub, cellphone to my ear. I felt strangely alone, as if the adulation was a severed limb, the phantom ache pulsing just above the bubble-line. “I asked. He answered. Could you hear?”
“I heard,” Arthur replied. “He says the same to me. It means nothing. Actions speak louder than words. And guess what?”
“You’re not getting any action.” My hand swirled in the warm water.
“Nope,” he replied. “Blue balls. Blue balls is what I got. That and mascara stains on my high-thread-count sheets.”
“Maybe he’s got low testosterone. Maybe you need a doctor, not a detective.”
He sighed. “He’s cheating, Barry. A husband knows.”
“So why not just confront him?”
The sigh repeated.
