The Wife

The Wife siddles by me, glaring. She's looking for her carkeys. She never puts them in the same place twice and inevitably cannot locate them when she wants to toodle. She has big issues with this sort of thing. I, on the other hand, do not. I do, however, have plenty of my own issues. Anyway, she is raging this morning because I mistook a minister's email regarding her sermon. She, the minister, referenced a Curtis Mayfield song from the 60s, get on board the train, but reading her words quickly, she mentions the OJ's "Love Train" which Mayfields' song is clearly not. Apparently I was condescending in the way I noted this, setting The Wife on a fou-mouthed tirade, one of her worst to date, featuring the epithlet "fuckingasshole," that's one word in every spluttering sentence. There may have been froth at the mouth. It was a bit over the top, in my opinion, but since I inevitably trigger such rage with a careless word or a glance, I need to say I'm sorry, which does not come quickly when I neither feel sorry, nor feel I should be. Fulton Street fish market moved this past week from lower Manhattan for the first time in nearly two hundred years. I think the fisherman's wife may have moved all the way into Westchester, too. Otherwise, change is in the air, but Indian Sumer abounds. Our house is up in boxes and our emotional state is flaming, furious. The Wife has found her keys and has headed to the market to find today's ugly news in The Times. Good riddance to Her Rottenness, My Wife!