Jack Kennedy stood in the doorway of his wife's bedroom. She was fixing her hair, and though he knew she could see him, she made a point of ignoring him.
'Did you hear the speech?'
'I did,' she replied.
'What did you think?'
Jackie hesited. She closed her eyes for just a second, and then she turned and faced her husband. 'I think it was wonderful, Jack. I think it was perfect and beautiful and eloquent and that you are the greatest man that ever walked the face of the earth, and please don't come any closer because I can smell cigarettes and perfume on you and it just disgusts me.'
'Jackie...'
'No, Jack. Don't Jackie me. This time I don't even want to know who it was or where it was, or how many times you've seen her before. Was she a showgirl or a pretty journalist or some party contributor's daughters, or was she just some intern from the press office? You know what? I don't care, Jack. I really don't care.'