True to his word, Tony never brought a date home. I ran into him a time or two when I was on the town myself, and I’d met some of the women he squired around the D.C. area. I wondered if he realized how much alike they were. Whether blonde, brunette or redhead, they were all cool and emotionally distant.
I came home from a date one Saturday night to find him sprawled on the sofa. His eyes were closed, and he had a glass of scotch in one hand while the other was folded behind his head. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was on the stereo.
“You’re home early.”
“And I’m in a miserable mood,” I snapped and threw my little clutch bag on the coffee table, where it bounced before it skidded off onto the carpet. I shoved his legs off the end of the couch, dropped down, and took his glass from him.
“Hey!”
