Later that evening, Johnny lay in bed with a woman who was divided in two, and he knew it. Dahlia and Catherine. He had devoted the last ten years of his life to Catherine, but he was fucking Dahlia. He was falling in love with Dahlia.
And Dahlia was disgusted with him, disgusted with her desire for him. But if he tried to say anything to excuse her or explain, he would be battling Catherine again, the invincible indefatigable Saint Catherine of Alexandria. All he could think to do was tell her a story, and so he began, in the most soothing voice he could muster.