The couple collapsed in the living room, having at last seen their kid off to dreamland. Marlene poured herself a stiff one of jug red and drank off half of it.

"God, did I not need that! I've told her a million times to wear her slippers."

"She's only three and a half," said Karp in defense. "She gets splinters because we live in a decaying industrial building. Maybe she should wear gloves too, and a face mask."

"Please, don't start…"

"No, really! It's all part of the same thing. You have a job that drives you crazy and leaves you exhausted, we live in a five-flight walk-up with splintery floors and leaky plumbing that's freezing in winter and boiling in summer, and you wonder why we're irritated all the time."

"We're not 'irritated all the time,' " snapped Marlene. "Every time something happens you blame it on the loft. Okay, we'll get the floors sanded and refinished."

This was far from a new argument. The loft had originally been Marlene's dwelling. She had constructed it herself, with help from family and friends, tearing out the industrial ruins, cleaning it, painting it, putting in drywall, kitchen and cabinet work. She'd lived in it happily for six years. When Karp moved in it had seemed to him just one of his lover's delightful eccentricities. But as the seat of a marriage, and a place to raise a child, it was, in his often-voiced opinion, a giant pain in the ass.

"Refinishing isn't going to do any good. The damn floor's sagging all over the place. It's probably totally rotted out underneath."

"Okay, we'll replace the fucking floor! Why are you hocking me about the floor? Why now?" A flush had appeared across her famous cheekbones and she took another swallow of wine. Then she looked at her husband narrowly. He met her gaze for an instant and then glanced away.

"Because," said Karp, "we have to make some decisions. How long are we going to keep pouring money into this place? I mean, is this it? We're going to live here forever?"