It had gone the other way around: when she'd looked at me, she'd felt—not like a tart, necessarily—but not like a faithful wife, either. And I was being blamed for that. I skipped the point. "You two kids retired in good order."
"That's what I thought. We got about a block away before she blew up."
"I'm sorry."
He tossed himself into a chair. He slipped down his tie and stared at me. "What in hell did you do?"
"Nothing."
"It wasn't—a pleasant—lunch. If all those idiotic things hadn't got us laughing—then paralyzed—"
"Go on. She blew up?"
"Sure. She said about a thousand crazy things—things like never being able to go around with me where people knew—because she realized she'd always see them knowing—and thinking. I had to get back to the lab. We've got the pile set at—we've got stuff cooking. I managed to calm her down enough so she promised to go home and get dinner. But when I got there—" He held out a note:
Paul, dear—For people like us, it should always be quick, clean, permanent, and no hard feelings. I love you—that's why. M.