I saw that he looked truly miserable. Maybe, I figured,
he was disappointed his job wasn’t getting him anywhere
after quite some years; men got that way, I supposed.
But his despair showed worse and worse, and of course
men are terrible at expressing feelings, so I said,
“Come on, Fred, tell me, what is the tragedy? What’s
going on?” “You really want to know?” he asked. “Of course.
I’m your wife. Tell me.” So he tells me the reason is
his girlfriend, after five years, decided to give him the air.
She left him flat. “I’m so glad,” he said, “you wanted me
to tell you. Can you imagine how it’s been eating me up?”
He told me this, standing in the kitchen in a towel
from his shower. At the time, I was slicing some excellent
tenderloin for the boeuf bourguignon and noodles
I thought would cheer him up.
I sliced away as I thought about the pain poor Fred
was experiencing at the hand of some bitch I’d never
heard of before that moment. Slice, slice, slice,
through the juicy tenderloin. He escaped
into the hallway just as I lunged. Poor Fred.