You nod. “But we were so drunk.” He speaks as if he’s talking to a child. “Both of us. We had no idea what we were doing.” “I know,” you say. “It was a crazy thing to do.” “Tm not a good guy, baby,” he says. “You don’t deserve a guy like me. I don’t deserve a girl like you.” It’s just so unoriginal and laughably transparent, feeding you the same line he fed the papers about his last wife. “What are you saying?” you ask. You put a little spin into it. You make it sound like you might start crying. You have to do this because it is what most women would do. And you have to appear to him the way he sees most women. You have to appear to have been outsmarted. “I think we should call our people, baby. I think we should get an annulment.” “But, Mick—” He cuts you off, and it makes you mad, because you really did have more to say. “It’s better this way, honey. I’m afraid I can’t take no for an answer.” You wonder what it must be like to be a man, to be so confident that the final say is yours. When he gets up off the bed and grabs his jacket, you realize there’s an element of this that you hadn’t accounted for. He likes to reject. He likes to condescend. When he was calculating his moves last night, he was thinking of this moment, too. This moment where he gets to leave you. So you do something you hadn’t rehearsed in your mind. When he gets to the door and turns to you and says, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out between us, baby. But I wish you all the best,” you pick up the phone on the side of the bed and throw it at him. You do it because you know he'll like it. Because he’s given you everything you came for. You should give him everything he came for. He ducks and frowns at you, as if you’re a small deer he has to leave in the forest. You start crying.