His wife was slipping, slipping. Whenever his wife got very bad, Mr. Pinkham became impotent. Both he and Emma knew this from experience. On such days he always met her at a mall. Buying her things seemed to make him feel better for some reason. Then they'd usually have dinner-how Mr. Pinkham loved to pour A-1 sauce on his steak; drown it to the point that Emma would laugh and laugh-and then he'd walk her to her car, pay her, and tip her, just as if they'd spent time in bed, and then kiss her chastely on the nose. Always on the nose, with his dry little mouth. Emma invariably found this sweet and squeezed his hand goodbye in response. Then Mr. Pinkham walked to his huge new Chrysler and got inside and tooted goodbye.

A call came for her at Anne Klein, where she was looking at silk blouses with stand-up collars and three-button cuffs, wondering if they were right for her. When she heard herself paged, she asked the salesperson where she might take the call. The woman smiled and directed her to the office. She was the same salesperson who had five minutes ago told Emma how beautiful she was-so long and graceful a neck, so perfect yet exotic a face. Emma had always found women better at giving compliments than men. They just knew how to do it better.

The call was from Mr. Pinkham. He was terribly sorry, but the doctor was now saying that Mrs. Pinkham might not last the night. Emma could tell Mr. Pinkham was struggling not to cry. For the first time ever she said "I love you" to Mr. Pinkham. She didn't even worry if he'd misinterpret it. She just said, "I love you." She imagined he needed to hear that very badly. Then he did start crying, just a little, and said, "I love you, too, Emma." Then he hung up.

In the parking lot Emma stood by her new Mustang convertible inhaling the chill autumn air. She could smell snow coming. Poor Mr. Pinkham. She wished he could enjoy the night.

In the car she turned up KJJO. She needed to hear good strong rock and roll. It was sort of like taking vitamins.