Although it would not be easy to prove at the moment, Futterman was not a player. He had never cheated on his wife during all the years of their marriage, and his experience with women before his marriage wasn't extensive. Since Ruth's death, he had gone out with four different women, but never more than twice with any one of them, and with none did he wind up in bed. Futterman did not consider sex a trivial act. Nor was he a drinking man. Last night, for some reason, everything broke loose, and here he is, hung over, naked, with a woman more than 30 years younger than he in his bed. 

Futterman slips quietly out of the bed, puts on pyjamas, robe and slippers, and  goes into the kitchen to make coffee. When he returns to the bedroom, Ms Shanahan is awake, sitting up in bed, the top sheet and blanket tucked under her chin.

"What's that old Laurel and Hardy line?" she says, looking down. "‘A fine mess you've gotten us into this time, Stanley.' Except I'm not even sure which one of us is Stanley."

"I must be Stanley," Futterman says, surprised at her old-fashioned movie reference, "even though you are too good-looking to be taken for Ollie."

"Excuse me for a few moments, please," she says, "while I get dressed."

"I've got some coffee going," Futterman says, and leaves the room.