He jerked involuntarily, stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"Are you – do you feel that you're – impotent?"

"Of course not!"

"Well?" She lay on her side waiting. He didn't answer. "Tom," she said, "there is something wrong. Do you at least grant me that?"

"The only thing that's wrong," Tom Hickman said, knotting his tie in front of the mirror, "is the fact that you seem to be acting like a nymphomaniac lately. I can't get a second's rest, Joanie, you're always after me, trying to pull me into bed. And I have other things on my mind right now. I'm up for tenure at the end of the term, and if I don't get tenure, then we are back on the job market, and you know how hard it is to find a job teaching English literature on the college level. So if I'm not as sexy as you are, well, I'm sorry but those are the breaks."

"You didn't answer my question," Joanne called as he went out the door. "Is something wrong with your cock? Why won't it get hard? Why?" She came out of the bed, jumping, hauling the nightgown over her head as she ran toward the door. She tossed it over her shoulder and went out the door, standing at the edge of the living room, bare and naked, long hair swirling down her shoulders, a few stray curls wisping onto the curve of her tits. "Look at me," she said. "Will you for Christ's sake look at me?"

He turned, his hand on the front doorknob. "Put your clothes on," he said. That was all he said. He opened the door, went out, closed it behind him, and a few moments later she heard the sound of the car engine starting in the driveway.

Joanne slunk back, against the wall, her arms crossed on her tummy. I will riot cry, she told herself I will not have a hysterical fit. I will take this calmly. "Goddamn you!" she yelled in a high, fluting voice. "Have you turned faggot or something?" But he couldn't hear. He was already in the car, already on the street, on his way to work again. Numb, angry, she turned, stomped into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.