On his chair Burt wheeled on his wife. His eyes were bloodshot and black-rimmed. In his right hand was a jar of blemish cream. In his left, a can of hairspray-one of dozens Helen went through every month.

"Where?" he barked.

Sandals flapping angrily against her pumiced heels, Helen marched over to the medicine cabinet. Ripping open the door, she stuck a handful of Lee Press-Ons inside. They reappeared clutching a familiar blue bottle.

"Next time try looking under your nose," she snapped.

"Give it here." Burt scurried down to the floor, snatching the bottle from Helen's hand.

He popped the lid and dumped the Maalox down his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed gratefully as the chalky liquid rolled down into his burning belly. "You could ask before you throw one of your fits," Helen complained as she surveyed the bathroom. It looked as if a hurricane had blown through the cupboards.

"I wouldn't have to ask if you left the damn stuff where it belonged," Burt panted between swigs.

As he gulped, Helen stooped to pick up a toothbrush. Halfway to the floor, she changed her mind. Straightening, she planted two fists on her ample hips. "No. I am not picking this up."

"Big surprise," Burt grunted. Burping, he capped the bottle. Wiping blue gunk from his lips with the sleeve of his shirt, he headed out the door.

"I'm not kidding," Helen warned, storming into their bedroom after him. "You made that mess. You can pick it up."

"Have Mrs. Parkasian do it."

Burt dropped onto the edge of their queen-size bed. He began pulling on a pair of white athletic socks. "Oh, no. I'm not letting that old bat see that mess. She'll tell everyone in town I'm a slob. That's all I need. They already look at me like I'm goddamned Zsa-Zsa."

"What do you care, Helen?" Burt said as he stuffed his feet into his sneakers. The antacid wasn't working. His belly still burned. "In a month you'll never see anyone in this town again."