A few days ago, we had a little get together with some friends. The couples gathered at my house and we sat around and talked and laughed and ate. I was particularly interested in talking to Mrs. Preston, who had been to Indonesia to see the Komodo Dragons. Did they eat people? How big were they? Did they fart in the water?
Mrs. Preston was pleased to answer all my questions, priding herself on her vast biological knowledge, and we both hung near the purple lamp in the far corner of the room, hunched over our glasses.
Nearing midnight, when the last person had drained the last glass and shoved off, my wife and I my wife and I set about clearing the mess left behind, at least enough to make the place look presentable in case armed robbers broke in before morning.
My woman wouldn’t laugh at my jokes, wouldn’t comment on the Pepple’s new car, wouldn’t give me the latest update on office affairs going on from here to New Zealand.
‘Did Milly tell you that Komodo Dragons fart in the-’
She glared at me. ‘Milly didn’t tell me anything. Hardly had a chance with you two cuddling up in the corner over there.’
I looked indignant. ‘What do you think we were doing, cuddled up in the corner over there?’
‘Who cares,’ she fires back, ‘at least we didn’t hear any funny noises.’
And she stalks off to the bedroom, leaving me clutching stained wineglasses, astounded.
So, there it is. My wife’s decided I was flirting with big-boobed Mrs. Preston. Do Get to tell her all I leant about Komodo Dragons that evening? Please.

Some days later, we visited my wife’s former boss, a slacker with brilliant white teeth and oily hair. This man completely ignores me, clutching my wife’s hand with both of his, nearly kissing her wedding band off. I try to chip in a few friendly questions (”How’re the kids?” “How’re the ulcers?”) and he snaps monosyllabic answers my way before returning rapt attention to my wife, her beady, black eyes trickling down her shirt front. I sit and fume for three and a half hours until my wife decides it’s time to go home.
On the way home, I sit woodenly in the driver’s chair while she twitters on about what a wonderful man her old boss is. I say nothing and we get home and i brush my teeth and put on my polka-dot pjs.
‘Are you jealous, James?’ she asks suddenly.
I glare at her. ‘Does your old boss have a wife?’
She looks indignant. ‘The poor lady died barely a fortnight ago! Why do you think we went to visit him in the first place? I think you should pay more attention to conversations.’
‘I think you might have cracked cheekbones from all the kisses he gave you.’
‘He was only admiring me, James, admiring,’ she says, her voice colder than my left buttock in February. ‘You could learn to do more of that yourself.’
Once again, she comes off as the injured lady and I come off reeking like the devil after he’s jogged round the globe, persecuting Christians.

I never get to please my darling.
We watch a soap opera where the guy trots with his boss’s wife to the store and helps her carry the groceries.
‘Wow,’ I say, ‘He certainly knows his way around the ladies.’
She grimaces. ‘I think he’s wimpy.’
Next day, she wants me to go to the mall with her. Impossible. I flip to the sports channel, tell her to go herself and presto I become the unsupportive husband who doesn’t understand.
I compliment her at a neighbour’s party and later she tells me it was embarrassing the way i griped on and on about her looks. So I say nothing when she dresses her best and we go out for Chinese in her birthday, and she starts to doubt my attraction to her.
Monday morning, I feel worn out and talking about skipping work and she says I’m getting old and lazy. That fires me up, so i go to the office and come home late to a wife who wants to know, honestly and if there was ever anything between us, if I’ve gotten a mistress.
She wears my favourite jeans and goes out with her girlfriends; i threaten to wear her favourite gown to church on Sunday and she thinks I’m gay.
We go out to dinner on our wedding anniversary and I assure I wouldn’t mind if she pays the bill. She goes pale and hushes me up and looks around like I’ve said something evil.
The list goes on and on. I never seem to get it right.
I bought her a nice trench coat this weekend, the female agents wear when they’re going to the bad guy’s diner party.
‘You can wear nothing under it,’ I joke, ‘and we can go to the mall and walk on the street and nobody will be any the wiser.’
She giggled.
Yesterday, she wanted us to go to the movies.
‘It’s cold out there,’ i say. ‘I think you should wear that trench coat I bought you.’
‘I think you should see a psychiatrist, James,’ she snaps, and I wonder, What did I do know?