She took a bath before fixing the dinner, and then ate with a bulky housecoat roped around her in her usual state of post-bath dishevelment: hair damp, skin dry and porous, no lipstick and a smiling spoor of milk around the upper borders of her unsmiling mouth. “Where do you think you’re going?” she said, when he had pushed his plate away and stood up. “Look at that—a full glass of milk on the table. Honestly, John, you’re the one that makes me buy milk and then when I buy it you go and leave a full glass on the table. Now come back here and drink that up.”

He went back and gulped the milk, which made him feel ill.