"No," she said.
"These headaches again?" His disdainful tone had the sotto voce of exasperation as if she were the pesky fly who should be shooed away.
"Fuck, don't say it that way. It isn't psychosomatic."
"What did you say?"
"The headaches aren't psychosomatic."
"You need to watch that mouth," he said sternly. He rinsed his mouth and spat. Then to soften his austerity he added, "Remember there's a bottle of Ivory Soap in here to wash out your mouth. You know, if there weren't two imitative boys to consider I wouldn't really mind all that much a slip here and there. As you have pointed out a bunch of times guys get enthusiastic at ball games and say things they shouldn't say. I've been one of those guys. Fine, I can buy that; and you are kind of right—the love and hate in the tone of voice matter more." He turned off the faucet and came into the bedroom with the stained suit jacket on a hanger. "Look over here. I'm putting the jacket on the chair. Make sure that you take it this afternoon so that you can get it tomorrow morning."
"I'm ill, Michael."
"Then have Betty take it."
"She can't drive."
"She should know how to sit in a taxi, don't you think?"