Her voice is hoarsening and finding a certain swing, welling up. “I have no use for him any more. I’m scared to fuck him, I’m scared to be legally associated with him. I’ve wasted my life. You don’t know what it’s like. You’re a man, you’re free, you can do what you want in life, until you’re sixty at least you’re a buyer. A woman’s a seller. She has to be. And she better not haggle too long. I’m thirty-three. I’ve had my shot, Harry. I wasted it on Nelson. I had my little hand of cards and played them and now I’m folded, I’m through. My husband hates me and I hate him and we don’t even have any money to split up! I’m scared – so scared. And my kids are scared, too. I’m trash and they’re trash and they know it.”

“Hey, hey,” he has to say. “Come on. Nobody’s trash.” But even as he says it he knows this is an old-fashioned idea he would have trouble defending. We’re all trash, really. Without God to lift us up and make us into angels we’re all trash.