He woke up in a daze, sicker than he had ever been, in a cloud of smoke. Bessandra was laying next to him lighting up another cigarette, blowing the smoke languidly over his skinny chest. He razed up on his elbows and looked at her, wanting to ask if it was good for her.

She blew smoke in his face, obviously reading his thoughts as he felt like he was going to hurl.

“Five O’s baby, five big O’s! Not bad for stroking out. But you ruined the Big Six. Look, fuck me until I scream or get out.”

He could not believe how cruel she was being. Apparently it showed on his face, so she spoke clearly into his, “Look, Jay Jay: you don’t make a lot of money, you have a ten-year-old’s name, you don’t dance, you can’t fight, you are built like a two-by-four, and you’re fucking ugly! I don’t mean to be cruel, but since your mamma didn’t clue you in I need to. Look,” she said as she pointed to his still erect penis, “that is our relationship. You are a dick strapped to a two-by-four. Your carpentry ass ought to understand that, right? You have a beautiful dick, and you’re a nice guy. That’s it. Nice guys are a dime a dozen. That! That is what keeps a roof over your head. So, Mister Nice Guy, mount up and pin me to the mattress.”

She navigated around on her knees as she assumed the position and put her cigarette out on his chest—again, just like on her birthday, “Ouch!”

“Oh, you’re such a sissy. Now it looks like the other one.”

Then it hit him, the worst bout of nausea he had ever had, brought on by the cigarette put out on his hairless chest. She was looking him right in the face, both of them on their knees now.

He had never really considered the velocity of vomit, let alone its potential velocity, until he saw his lasagna dinner—or rather what it had turned into—erupt as a cascade deflected by her perfectly shaped face, hurling through her glossy hair, and spattering the love pillows behind her!

Now she was jumping up and down and screaming, “You sick bitch! I’m gonna rip your dick off and mount it—you are fucking dead!”

Jay Jay was climbing out of bed, dry heaving tomato sauce and grease, trying to pull his pants on. Then she got to the fireplace and grabbed the poker.

His pants were on and she was now stalking him like a tigress. He snatched his cell and went to call 911. Then she snarled like a psychotic she-beast, “Do it! Dooo it!! Oprah will give me a fucking medal!”

He threw his cell phone at her, causing her to duck long enough so that he could run for the door.

He grabbed his tool belt on the way out, and was making his way through the yard and out into the alley past her parking pad.