A hypothetical conversation, in medias res, that could have happened just after dusk in late October (22nd) at, I don’t know, Shady Grove on Barton Springs?

[...]

“So, I have two theories about what happened.”
“Just two?”
“Two that I ruminate on.”
“You ruminate on everything.”
“Only when I’m running through scenarios.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is. Anyway, the first one is Warren-Commission paranoid, yet strangely plausible.”
“Why is that?”
“Honestly? Linda? Really?”
“Tell me.”
“Everything you’ve ever said to me is in play. Are you really going camping this weekend with your brother and his girlfriend? Are you really going to see your brother after we finish here? Because, I don’t believe you. You didn’t visit your brother once in the six months we lived together and now you’re going to go see him at 9:30 when you have to work tomorrow? Sounds more like a sleepover.”
“I’m not lying to you.”
“Well, there’s the rub, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“That’s what a liar would say. A sociopath would say it as calmly as you just did.”
“So now I’m a sociopath?”
“Technically, if you were, you probably wouldn’t be able to tell me.”
“Always a wise ass. Fine.”
“The second theory I would bet my life that I was correct. And I wouldn’t lose.”
“You’re always so fucking dramatic.”
“I told you that, literally, in the first sentence of the first email I ever wrote to you that wasn’t about contracts.”
“Intense. Needy. Sometimes, intensely needy.”
“You bothered to remember?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“My default answer is ‘The truth.’ But, I wouldn’t believe anything you said at this point anyway. By the way, I brought your book back, the one about Schrödinger’s cat; the one that made me fall in love with you.”
“Keep it.”
“I don’t want it. It hurts to look at.”
“So why are we here, then?”
“You can go if you want.”
“Why are we here?”
“I wanted to look in your eyes when I asked and you answered.”
“What good is that if I’m a sociopath?”
“You’re not. You’re just a liar. And to be honest, you’re not a very good one. Your voice doesn’t break but you always look away. Down, then to the right. Always. I used to play poker, remember?”
“You can be such a fucking asshole.”
“Yes. I really can. So, conspiracy theory number one.”
“This should be good.”
“I’ve seen you fall-down drunk just once, in all the time I’ve known you. In fact, it’s the only time I’ve seen you drunk. On alcohol, anyway.”
“July 4th.”
“Right. All your friends from Beaumont were there. So here’s theory number one. Someone you were pining for, but never thought would pan out, showed up that night. And wanted to hook up. But when he found out you were married, cut you off. So you got drunk. I couldn’t find you for an hour in your sister’s little house. But she knew exactly where you were. And probably why.”
“You really believe that?”
“Everything is in play.”
“Fuck you.”
“If you don’t tell anyone.”
“No, really, fuck you.”
“Wait till you hear number two.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Because you know it’s true. I haven’t even said it yet, and you know it’s true. You remember when you were cheating on John with me?”
“I never cheated.”
“Well, there was no genital exchange, Mrs. Clinton, no blue dress. Technically, you waited until the day after you broke up, but we were cheating and you know it.”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah, whatever. Did I at least get that day?”
“Make your fucking point already.”
“In retrospect, I realized that we never met at night. It was always during the day, or on the weekends. Or, when you ‘Had to work late,’ during the week. I remember you calling him and telling him while you were sitting with me, speaking as calmly as you are now. Toward the end, with us, remember how many nights you had to work late?”
“I did work late, asshole.”
“I know, it’s probably just a coincidence.”
“Fuck you, I’m leaving.”
“You just looked down, and to the right.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you. You really expected me to believe that after being unemployed for four months, you would take a 3-hour lunch to see a movie in your first week at work? Oh, and with ‘two’ guys I didn’t know? We all know it was one guy, and since it’s been six months he’s probably already gone as well, but I bet he’s still sniffing around. It’s your fucking M.O. Daytime dates and nighttime betrayals.”
“Stop. Please. Stop.”
“Why did you marry me? Was it for the story? Was it a joke? You always bragged about being a groupie for that comedian. That’s why I thought you found another one. Remember? Things weren’t perfect for two seconds and you bailed. Someone talked you into leaving weeks before you left.”
“I’m leaving now.”
“Is there a road back?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think I’m glad to see you go.”