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"You've been staring at that thing for twenty minutes now. Either it must be a lot better than it looks to me, or you've got some serious man problems."

Joyce tore her eyes from the small statue and turned around to face the speaker, a pretty young girl with dark hair and startlingly direct eyes.

"I'm sorry, do you need any help?" she asked politely.

The last thing she needed right now was to neglect the customers, and attract the wrath of the gallery owner. Maybe when she got her own art gallery... No, it wasn't much use hanging on to that old idea. L.A. was filled with art galleries. Unless she lived in a smaller town, she would have a hard time keeping up with the competition. And Hank would never let her finance anything with their own money.

The girl shook her head, dismissing the question. "I'm Anya," she stated.

Joyce offered her hand. "Joyce Summers."

Anya merely turned to look at the statue. "This looks old," she remarked, trailing a hand across the dark wooden surface. "African, right?"

Joyce nodded. "Yes. We've recently bought in a large number of African artefacts. This one depicts Uhula, the goddess of love and fertility." Of all the artefacts, this one was her favourite. A nude woman with exaggerated curves, emanating strength and wisdom. And she liked the fact that Uhula had been a mother goddess. A strong woman, not to be trifled with.

"Oh? Has it given you any luck then?" Anya asked casually, still studying the statue.

Joyce paused. "For me? No. But don't let that discourage you from buying it. Maybe it needs to really belong to someone to work properly," she added, forcing a smile.

"Maybe. African art is really not my area of expertise. Or fertility." A ghost of a smile appeared on the girl's lips, as if remembering something funny. "But I have been told I'm pretty good at helping people sort out their love problems."

Joyce wasn't sure how to respond. This Anya certainly seemed unusually confident and assured for her age. Maybe she was born wealthy. Sometimes privileged kids would show up, buying outrageously expensive art for their apartments. But Anya's confidence wasn't rude, in any way. She was just... outspoken.

"If you want, I can show you other pieces from the collection..." Joyce trailed off.

"Why don't you let me buy you a cup of coffee in the café over the street? Then you can tell me all about it," Anya suggested. "It might do you some good just to talk about it with someone. Whatever it is that's troubling you."

Joyce hesitated. She certainly wasn't some kind of pity case for strangers to feel sorry for. But Anya seemed sincere about wanting to talk to her. It could do no harm at least, could it?

"I have a break in thirty minutes," she said finally.

====

"...I finally had it when I found lipstick traces on his pants. He claimed he had no idea how it had gotten there. I mean, the least thing he could do is to be honest about it. After seventeen years of being married to this man, I deserve more than that."

Anya had listened attentively. "Well, to me he sounds like a real jerk..." she began. That was how she would start her sales pitch. Getting the scorned woman riled up enough to want the adulterer emasculated. Which was usually an easy trick.

Joyce sighed. "He is. But he's also the father of my two girls. And I don't want to drag him to court and tarnish those seventeen years we've had, at least. Any punishment from my side would only damage my family. And they matter more than anything else."

Anya frowned, trying to steer back the topic to Hank's gruesome demise. "But surely you must feel some kind of anger, some kind of wish to get even..."

Joyce nodded. "Of course I do. I'm still that human. He's betrayed me with this woman, a-and it hurts being rejected."

"Oh?" Anya held her breath. Maybe the fool woman would finally get to the point and wish for her husband to be punished. She was already tired of this city and itching to bestow toads and premature ejaculations upon all the men within its limits. Pity she would need to actually be *asked* first. Perhaps she would have more luck if she visited one of those militant neo-feminist groups....

"In a strange way, I-I wish I could somehow do the same to *him*. So that he could experience the same kind of hurt." The woman looked at her pleadingly, as if ashamed by her admission.

Anya smiled. "Done."

=====

Straightening her dress, Anya looked down at the sleeping Joyce. No, this had certainly not been standard procedure. A new form of vengeance, albeit not an unpleasant one. Perhaps this could be used in future cases as well.

Stepping out the door, she hummed contentedly. Still plenty of time left before her weekly appointment with D'Hoffryn. Maybe she could punish Hank just a smidge. Nothing big. A hint of potbelly. The beginnings of baldness on his head. Dandruff. Jock itch.

Just a little vengeance couldn't hurt, could it?