Jane called the next morning to apologize for making me part of their Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? production. I wanted to say, "You're not the one who should be sorry." I wanted to say, "Your only mistake was in not lobbing the basket of stale sweet rolls at his head"—hell, the cheese Danish alone was heavy enough to stun him into silence. I wanted to say, "Janey, Janey, Janey, what's become of your self-respect?" I wanted to say, "It's not whether somebody loves you (I mean, for all I know O.J. loved Nicole), it's how he treats you that counts." I found myself wondering: Is Jane afraid to be alone? Is it a money thing? Maybe she's an unindicted coconspirator, provoking him in some way that I'm just not seeing? Or maybe she woke up one morning and 22 years and two sons had simply come and gone—right along with her energy and confidence. Maybe she just forgot who she'd wanted to be when she grew up. In the end all I managed was, "I'm here if you need me."

"What's the matter? Are you coming down with something?" Johannes asks as I crawl into bed. I assure him that I'm fine. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Then why are you wearing the magenta puppy nightgown of death?" I explain that I'm working on a column and it's got me thinking about him and me and Dick and Jane and love and homicide and that point when a working relationship becomes more work than relationship. I admit there are moments when I'm not sure if it's luck or love or fear of failure that keeps us going, and I ask Johannes if he knows what I mean. There is a very long pause. He is contemplative. He is introspective. He is sound asleep.


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