o
business class, take along a lumbar pillow, and spend every moment that I'm not
in a meeting in a tub or getting a massage. I could use a change of scenery
about now, anyway."

"You're a goddamned idiot, you know that?"

Art knew it. He also knew that here was an opportunity to get back to EST, to
make a good impression on the Jersey clients, to make his name in the Tribe and
to make a bundle of cash. His back be damned, he was sick of lying around
anyway. "I've got to go, Linda."

"It's your life," she said, and tossed aside the covers. "But I don't have to
sit around watching you ruin it." She disappeared into the hallway, then
reemerged, dressed and with her coat on. "I'm out of here."

"Linda," Art said.

"No," she said. "Shut up. Why the fuck should I care if you don't, huh? I'm
going. See you around."

"Come on, let's talk about this."

East-Coast pizza. Flat Boston twangs. The coeds rushing through Harvard Square
and oh, maybe a side trip to New York, maybe another up to Toronto and a roti at
one of the halal Guyanese places on Queen Street. He levered himself painfully
out of bed and hobbled to the living room, where Linda was arguing with a taxi
dispatcher over her comm, trying to get them to send out a cab at two in the
morning.

"Come on," Art said. "Hang that up. Let's talk about this."

She shot him a dirty look and turned her back, kept on ranting down the comm at
the dispatcher.

"Linda, don't do this. Come on."

"I am on the phone!" she said to him, covering the mouthpiece. "Shut the fuck
up, will you?" She uncovered the mouthpiece. "Hello? Hello?" The dispatcher had
hung up. She snapped the comm shut and slammed it into her purse. She whirled to
face Art, snorting angry breaths through her nostrils. Her face was such a mask
of rage that Art recoiled, and his back twinged. He clasped at it and carefully
lowered himself onto the sofa.

"Don't do this, OK?" he said. "I need support, not haranguing."

"What's there to say? Your mind's already made up. You're going to go off and be
a fucking idiot and cripple yourself. Go ahead, you don't need my permission."

"Sit down, please, Linda, and talk to me. Let me explain my plan and my reasons,
OK? Then I'll listen to you. Maybe we can sort this out and actually, you know,
come to understand each other's point of view."

"Fine," she said, and slammed herself into the sofa. Art bounced and he seized
his back reflexively, waiting for the pain, bu