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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: