Memories are something

'You are a dope.'
'I don't know. I think I have something.'
He had spent all this money on dinner. Champagne, caviar, foie gras... And she implied that it had been wasteful. Perhaps implying too that the money would have been better spent on a dress for her, maybe shoes. Earrings, perhaps?
'Oh, yeah?' she asks. Not unkindly.
'Recollections...Dreams of good times. Memories.'
'You are a dope,' she says good-naturedly. And punches his upper arm very lightly.
And so he has a pang. He is...panged.
But she is not to know. All it is, he wishes she hadn't said it quite that way. She reminds him of his wife those many years ago, when his wife wasted champagne by the bucket. And then he tipped the taxi driver a tip more than his wife could stand, never mind all the champagne his wife had wasted. And his wife had called him a dope.

Best don't get between your man—and another man

So what would—can—a woman ask who comes across her man poised to enter...another man?
Call all this her woman's intuition, conjecture, fragmentary knowledge. But this much she will know...A man with a hard-on is always right because he can't think about anything else at all—at this time. Her man will simply and unthinkingly place himself in the right. Right or wrong, this is what he will do.
To ask him anything is useless, will only end up in shouting—maybe worse. So this time is not right for questions. A man with a hard-on's prime, total, immediate, vital—and only concern—in his life at this moment in time is to get himself off.
Her man's thoughts will be concentrated in his prick. Without question this is not a good time...Not a good time for anything other than to back off.
Men in this situation probably don't appreciate female voyeurs either.
Best to close a bedroom door. And close another Chapter—or hopefully only a Verse and not a Book—in her life over the long run of time.
Of course, not a wonderful feeling...

2) Before the brush off, things were different

He'd said, Why don't you go down on your fours? I want your baby...
She said she remembered very clearly this was said. His voice unsteady in the saying, remembered that too.
'Did he really say, I want your baby? Really?'
Yes, really, she insisted. He really did.
She'd even made a mental note--half question, half answer--pleased that he felt that way, and her response had been almost Pavlovian.
'So then...what?'
Pavlov, that's what. Pavlov. She went on all fours was what. And had his baby for him.
'Now...what?'
Somehow, she had an idea that he would not be pleased, be jumping for joy on the springs in his steps all the way to Babyland. To buy clothes for baby, buy champagne for everybody else. Be wanting to get married as soon as the licensing office opened.
Even though he did once say, I want your baby.
And she had responded. Dropped down on all fours, let him drop her panties too.

1) Anatomy of the brush off as she described it...

As she described it...he shook his head, pursed his lips, his face was in obvious pain. His glassy pensive eyes looked past her shoulder, over steam that was rising from his coffee and riding the air between them, making her turn around to see who was there.
No, he was not trying to say anything specific, he said. Only he was going through some kind of damned phase... Damned phase, introspection, call it what she wanted. He was taking a hard look at himself, inside his own person. And the fact was that, did she know what, all in all, whatever the outside, whatever his personal packaging, he didn't think he was, in general, good material. Of any kind.
She said she was tired, and all she said was, 'Oh...'
Well, he went on, he was no bargain when it came to women, and women shouldn't get involved. See, he was...a cracked plate. This was the sad, sad conclusion he'd come to.
'I think you're being too hard on yourself,' she said, 'I really do.'

Look, he went on, maybe he'd shake it off. The mood. Kind of like he was walking in a cloud--depressing mist--that totally enveloped him. He sure damn hoped to shake it off, because the fact was he found it painful to have such a low opinion of himself over something as basic and important as human relationships.
She saw his face crumple again, in obvious pain. She tried to take his hand, but he pulled it away slowly and gently. She watched his hand recede from hers, slowly. He was not worthy, see. He was not worthy even of touching the elastomer fabric of her panties. Not anymore...
And one time, he was always doing that--pulling on the elastomer, removing her panties.