"Fuck you! Go to straight to hell!"

This isn't the first time Jo spat venom at her husband. You've gathered enough context from her friends about how much she can fight back.

She doesn't often talk about what a turmoil it is with you, since she favors the magical moments of what marriage is about over the white she guzzles down and the back of his fist. But you know. You know quite enough.

You and Jo have been friends for a while now, so randomly showing up at the burlesque club she works the stage on while she's in the middle of bitching out whom you assume to be her husband while touching up her makeup in the empty dress room isn't a rare occurrence. She's come to expect you "breaking in" after hours when you've had a long day.

It's not an affair. It's not. You haven't even touched her before.

She hangs up the phone, practically slamming it face down onto the vanity surrounded by her cosmetics.

She glances up when she notices you casually leaning against the door frame with two greasy bags of food in hand.

"Oh, there you are," Jo chirps, the tension in her body language almost fading. Almost. "I was wonderin' if you were gonna fuckin' show your mug."