The call was clinically brief. I ripped Marlena’s picture and smacked the pieces down. She’d cored my heart with a dull knife. Why hadn’t I read the signs? The hints at marriage. The other guy from work. I shook my head. Falling in love was the problem. I’d ice my emotions. I’d cultivate a string of nubiles and extract pleasure like a flitting bumblebee. Women would be at my beck and call. I’d be in charge. I picked up the pieces of Marlena’s photograph. Her smile was like a mirror in sunlight. Shit. I wondered where I’d put the Scotch Tape.
— Joseph Giordano