What can YOU say in six sentences?
Sitting in a car on the street in front of the house of the man who's banging your wife is a fairly singular experience, even as solitude goes. It doesn't take long for the radio to get violently switched off, then switched back on again because the noise in your brain is shittier than the noise on the radio, then snatched back off again and you've got the knob in your hand and you rifle that thing into the floorboard so hard it bounces back into the back seat.
Then you take a breath and get down to it, which means imagining this prick standing in front of the only thing you ever really loved with his pants around his ankles and her knees sunk into the thick, creamy carpet of his bedroom and there's this fidgety heat that starts to irritate the backs of your eyes. What are we going to do about this, Randy says the black L shape lying in the passenger seat, and you choke the bottom of the steering wheel and try to breathe and don't even realize that you're rocking a little in the seat.
In the morning you watch her checking her phone and catch the shadow of something - concern? irritation? - as it ghosts across her face and then away, and you decide that if it's the only pleasure you get before the torture of wondering when they'll figure it out, it'll have to do. You had lost her one way or another anyway.