"I don't know what you're talking about," Derek says.

"A blonde girl," Moira says.  "Tall, thin.  Kind of pouty."

Moira and Derek are inside Derek's Jaguar, waiting at a stoplight.  A black kid on inline skates whizzes by on the crosswalk.  It's four-thirty in the morning.

"Yes, Rebecca, okay?  Her name's Rebecca.  I know who you're talking about, I don't know what you're talking about."

"You disappeared.  With Rebecca."

"I can't believe you're saying this.  You're not saying this."

"Where did you go?"

"Moira, I didn't go anywhere.  Where would I go?"

"You had sex with her, didn't you?"

"Jesus Christ," Derek says.  The light turns green.  Derek puts the car in first and it glides forward.  "Do I have to say it?  I didn't have sex with her, Moira.  I didn't even speak to her for more than five minutes.  What the hell has gotten in to you?"

Moira watches the colors from the street reflect off the Jaguar's glass.  The engine thrums.

"I'm sorry," she says.  "I guess I'm just drunk."  Moira can feel her pulse in her temple.  The heater in the Jag is going full blast.  She wants to crack the window but is too lazy to reach for it.  The world spins by, out of her control.

Moira hasn't had a period for two months.

"Maybe you need a job," her therapist says.  "Maybe you'd feel better working."

"Why?"

"Get your mind off things.  Get you interacting with people."

"I had a job."

"When?"

"Last year."

"What did you do?"

"Derek got it for me.  I worked in a bank.  I was a teller."

"Really.  What did you think of being a bank teller?"

"I didn't like it.  It was a lot of pressure.  Everyone always seemed to be in a hurry.  And there was the money.  I worried about the money."

"What was wrong with the money?"

"Nothing was wrong with it.  I was what was wrong.  I worried about miscalculating, about giving money away, about doing something wrong.  Every evening, when I had to count my drawer, I would get sick to my stomach.  Cold sweats.  It was horrible.

"How long did you work there?"

"Four days."