“Did you hear that?” said Cleo in the darkness.
“Mm,” said Frank. “Sounds like she’s having a grand old time.”
“Will you hold me?”
“I’m too hot,” said Frank. “My chest overheats. You hold me.”
“Okay.”
Cleo cradled herself around his back and tucked her nose into his hairline.
“My furnace,” she said. “It’s good to have you here.”
“I live here,” said Frank.
“You know what I mean,” she said. “You’re home more at the moment. It’s nice.”
He was almost asleep. He nodded with his eyes closed.
“Frank?” she murmured.
He stayed quiet. He really did need to sleep.
“Frank?” she said again, louder this time.
“Yuh-huh.”
“I’ve been lonely.”
He opened his eyes in the darkness. He could feel Cleo’s breath on the back of his neck.
“You have?”
“Mm. And Audrey, Quentin, you know, they’re no help. They’re so …”
“Fucked up?”
Cleo let out a tearful laugh behind him. “Yes. But darling, I hate to break it to you, so are we.”
“I’ll try to be less fucked up.” He yawned. “I promise.”
“How?” she asked.
“You want specifics?”
“Not anything so specific … Except, maybe one thing.”
He could feel her body stiffen into alertness behind him. Frank kept perfectly still and stared into the darkness ahead of him.
“Maybe, I don’t know, maybe you could drink a little less.”
“I could?”
“You don’t think?”
“Is that what you think?”
“Well, I just thought that it seems to be getting worse … And if you could, I don’t know, try to cut back a bit or try not to drink every night, it might, well, it might help.”
Frank sat up in bed. “You thought the night before my big meeting was the right time to bring this up?”
“Oh,” said Cleo. “Okay, I see your point. I just didn’t think it had to be a big discussion or anything. I just thought—”
“I’m sorry, I must be confused,” Frank interrupted. “Is there something I’m not providing for you?”
“What?”
Frank’s voice, he realized with surprise, was slightly slurred. He slowed his voice to hide this, punctuating each word.
“Is. There. Something. I’m. Not. Providing.”
“Of course not,” said Cleo very quietly. “You provide everything.”
“What are you trying to say, then? Do I not pay our mortgage? Do I not go to work every day? Do I not work my ass off so you can basically do whatever the fuck you want with your life?”
“I’m not questioning how hard you work. I would never! I’ve just noticed—”
“What have you noticed, Cleo? Is it you who’s paying for this apartment? With your … your paintings? You lived in a fucking dump when I first met you.”
“Frank, stop!”
Cleo’s voice was cracking. He knew he should stop, but he couldn’t. There was a sick kind of pleasure in defending himself so ruthlessly.
“Don’t you dare cry,” he said. “You’re not the one being attacked. I cannot believe you would sit here and criticize me after everything I’ve done for you.”
“I’m not criticizing you,” begged Cleo. “I just worry sometimes that you could—”
“I thought I married an artist, not some censorious housewife counting my drinks.”
“I don’t count your drinks—”
“What more can I do? Seriously, what more could I possibly do for you?” She tried to speak, but he barreled on. “No, tell me, Cleo, please tell me what it is I’m not providing for you. I work like a dog. I earn more money than all your little friends combined. I give you everything you ask for. I have never tried to control what you do. You paint, you don’t paint, I support you anyway. And now you’re going to accuse me of neglecting you, neglecting my duties.”
“You’re twisting my words! I … I never said that.”
“You know what? It makes me sick, Cleo. It disgusts me that you could be so ungrateful.”
“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what I was trying to say. Just pretend I didn’t say anything.”