I said, “No.”
“Di-ane.” She heard the exasperation in my voice, and quickly took the shirt off her shoulders. “I said to bring it here.”
Diane folded the shirt. She walked towards me, holding it before her in both hands.
She stood in front of me, regarding me gravely. She was trying to be good, or look as if she was. I still had some righteous anger. But I didn’t want to whip her again, or lecture her.
I took the shirt. It was a man’s shirt, old, threadbare, a legacy of a former lover or a gift from a cheap current one. I could give her the shirt I was wearing, later that night. My shirt was better.
Diane suddenly understood how she was going to walk home with me. She said, “SIR!” She was shocked, but I was still Sir. I tore the shirt up the back, from the bottom hem all the way to the yoke.