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“She’s the one.”
“What?”
“She’s the one.”
“What one?”
Mitch jumped in, “Some pissed off angel in a nappy shot you in the fat head with a laser beam.”
“Be serious!”
“I am. She just hit you for six, Dan. You’re gone.”
Dan looked at Fluke to verify the emergence of this horror, both hands up as though to ward off the danger, to bounce the dirty truth of it away.
“Yeah,” said Fluke, “Your dog days are over bar how fast she tells you to fuck off and how long you stay depressed about it.”
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