I sit in the wingback chair and we pretend to converse.
You ask, like a husband, how my week was.
I say, Not bad. Only I felt a bit strange on Sunday.
Your eye runs to the clock above the door.
Tell me about it.
So I tell you how I went home and hid under a blanket
And waited for something bad to happen to me.
—Did anything bad happen to you?
—No, I don’t think it did.
—And how does that make you feel?
I never went back to you after that.