"Are you all right?" he asked. He was adrenalized, flushed.
"*What if they'd decided to kill us*?" she said, spittle flying from her lips.
"Oh, they weren't going to hurt us," he said. "No guts at all."
"God*dammit*, you didn't know that! Where do you get off playing around with *my* safety? Why the hell didn't you just hand over your wallet, call the cops and be done with it? Macho fucking horseshit!"
The triumph was fading, fast replaced by anger. "What's wrong with you? Do you always have to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory? I just beat off those three assholes without raising a hand, and all you want to do is criticize? Christ, OK, next time we can hand over our wallets. Maybe they'll want a little rape, too — should I go along with that? You just tell me what the rules are, and I'll be sure and obey them."
"You fucking *pig*! Where the fuck do you get off raising your voice to me? And don't you *ever* joke about rape. It's not even slightly funny, you arrogant fucking prick."
Art's triumph deflated. "Jesus," he said, "Jesus, Linda, I'm sorry. I didn't realize how scared you must have been —"
"You don't know what you're talking about. I've been mugged a dozen times. I hand over my wallet, cancel my cards, go to my insurer. No one's ever hurt me. I wasn't the least bit scared until you opened up your big goddamned mouth."
"Sorry, sorry. Sorry about the rape crack. I was just trying to make a point. I didn't know —" He wanted to say, *I didn't know you'd been raped*, but thought better of it — "it was so…*personal* for you —"
"Oh, Christ. Just because I don't want to joke about rape, you think I'm some kind of *victim*, that *I've* been raped" — Art grimaced — "well, I haven't, shithead. But it's not something you should be using as a goddamned example in one of your stupid points. Rape is serious."