Slowly he had shaken his head. “No, Sam, I won't.”

“Why?” Her voice had dwindled, childlike, and there had been a fresh wave of tears. “What does she have that I don't have? She's plain, and she's boring… and you-you always said you didn't like her… and you hated working with her, and-” She couldn't go on, and he watched her, almost feeling her pain as his own.

“I have to go, Sam.”

“Why?” She grew frantic as he moved into the bedroom to pack his clothes.

“Because I do, that's all. Look, it's not fair of me to stay here and let you go on like this.”

“Please stay…” Panic crept into her voice like a dangerous beast. “It's okay, we'll work it out… honest… please… John…” The tears were streaming down her face, and he suddenly turned hard and distant as he packed. He became almost frantic, as though he had to leave in a hurry before he fell apart too.

And then suddenly he turned on her. “Stop it, dammit! Stop it… Sam, please…”

“Please what? Please don't cry because my husband is leaving me after seven years, eleven if you count the time at Yale before we were married? Or please don't make you feel guilty while you leave me for some goddamn whore? Is that what you want, John? For me to wish you luck and help you pack? Christ, you walk in here and blow my whole life apart and what do you want from me? Understanding? Well, I can't give it to you. I can't do anything except cry, and if I have to, I'll beg… I'll beg, do you hear me…?” And with that, she collapsed in a chair and began to sob again. With a firm hand he clasped the suitcase into which he had thrown half a dozen shirts, a pair of sneakers, two pairs of dress shoes, and a summer suit. Half of it was hanging out of the suitcase, and he was carrying a fistful of ties in one hand. It was impossible. He couldn't think straight, let alone pack.