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One night she threw a glass of wine in his face. It was his wine, he’d been holding it, but he’d put it down to make a call on the kitchen phone. The wine sprayed all around him — cabinets, ceiling, floor; glass flew out of her hand by mistake, she later said, and hit his face and cut him but smashed against the wall. She’d overheard him making the call. He was telling a woman he’d known before he’d met Evangeline that he was going to pack his essential things right away and somehow get to her place in Berkeley, and if the buses weren’t running this late along El Camino and then from San Francisco or no friend would drive him to the Greyhound in Redwood City or all the way, he’d even splurge his last buck on a cab, for that was how much he wanted to get away. He and Evangeline had had a terrific fight that night, he then said he was leaving; she said “Shut up, you’ll wake the kid,” he said “What do you think our row was doing, and don’t you think he should know by now how we really feel about each other?” she said “Great, couldn’t be better, what a deal I won’t pass up: get your ass out of my house, you filthy bastard; disappear for good.” The woman said she could put him up for a few days, or more if it worked out between them, but they’d see. He said he should be there in a couple of hours if he made good connections, less if he got a ride right to her. “Anyway, don’t wait up; put the key behind that brick, if you still use it and it’s still a safe spot. I have your address and I think I remember where it is. Just tell me, does the key turn to the left or right?” Then the wine came and next the glass and then the threat not to use the phone again to call a friend or she’d get the cops. Knapsack and typewriter packed, he’d wiped the wine off the cabinets, ceiling and floor, looked in on Brons but didn’t bend down to kiss him or touch his head, knocked on her bedroom door and said “Just want you to know, I’m going now. I’ll try to catch the last bus at the stop. If I don’t make it, don’t worry, I’m not coming back. I’ll slide the keys under the front door after I lock it, and tell Brons I’ll call him tomorrow afternoon or night and of course that he had nothing to do with my going and that I absolutely love him,” and she said “Why are you telling me all this?” and he said “I thought it was important, especially that I wasn’t leaving the front door unlocked; so, I’ll see ya,” and she said “Hold it, will you?” and opened the door and she was crying and he said “What the hell are you crying for?” and she said “Please don’t be obtuse,” and he said “Okay, and I didn’t mean it that way,” and he cried and then, maybe the tenth time since he started living with her — about to go, his things on his shoulder and in his hands, his things by the door, his things on the other side of the door and once on the sidewalk while he waited for a cab he’d called to take him to a friend’s place — they made up and went to bed. He called the woman first and said he was staying, Evangeline and he had worked it out, and she said she was disappointed but understood and probably it was for the best—“No doubt it was, if you patched it up so fast; though after what you said happened tonight and what I could make out from her in the background in our first call, who can say if you’re not risking your life by staying another night — excuse me, because you probably love her.” “Do you think we get into these uncontrolled howling brawls just to have the greatest times in bed?” Evangeline said after and he said “I don’t think so; I hope not. They’re real, unfortunately, at least on my part; I truly hated you and wanted to flee,” and she said “Then flee, nothing’s holding you: no kids or contract or dues,” and he said “That what you want?” and she said “You can see that right now it’s not, but who can say for later if we have another mad brawl. We should try to work out what causes them. I know we’ve said that before, but this time to really work at it: therapy together, speaking to people whose judgments we trust, reading about it; whatever helps. Even if it doesn’t result in any long-standing arrangement for us with the whole caboodle kit of wedding rings and children thrown in, we’d find out for future relationships, and some perhaps of longer standing than ours, what bugs us about living with someone. And for the time being just to make it better for each other and Brons, since our fights damage him.” She’ll change her mind, he thought; if he just does his best to keep things smooth between them for a year and goes along with everything she says about helping them stay together and learning why they’re at each other so much, she’ll want to get married and have a kid with him and then maybe a second one, when she sees how helpful a husband and good a father he is with the first one, and even three kids if her body can take it. Three’s the number he wanted for years, he thought, but of his own. “What I’d love,” he said in bed that same night, “is just to have one good solid no-great-spats year,” and she said “That’d suit me. But I have to admit that another side of me says it wouldn’t be altogether healthy, or right for our natures, not getting things out fast and furiously that way, and think of those terrific screws we’d be missing right after we made up again. But we’ll work toward it. More than anything, there’s Brons to consider, as I said. You’re my dear.”