The woman scrambled up from her seat and shoved me hard, positioning herself in front of Roger like a shield. Her voice was shrill, indignant.
"Who do you think you are?"
"You have no right to touch my boyfriend!"
I looked at her—really looked—and almost laughed. Then I turned to Roger, whose expression had twisted into something complicated. I reached for the napkins on the table, calmly wiped my wrist where he'd grabbed me, and smiled.
"Why don't you tell her?"
My voice was ice.
"Tell her exactly who I am. Tell her whether or not I have the right to slap a dog who can't keep it in his pants."
Roger's face cycled through shock, then confusion, then—as he took in my relentless stare and the woman's defiant posture—something hardened. He stepped in front of her, shielding her from me.
"Lorraine." His jaw tightened. "When it comes to relationships, it takes two to tango."
He pulled the woman behind him. By then, my coworker had caught up and moved to my side. "You need backup?" she muttered.
I shook my head, keeping my eyes on Roger.