I stood at the sink in my wife's bathrobe eating cold fried chicken and potato salad that was slightly off. I reread the note—"Finish off the KFC. I'll be back Sunday night."
My first thought was a question—"How could potato salad go bad so quickly?" I ate it anyway.
Did she say where was she going? Maybe but I didn't remember. Sometimes she goes to another city, just for weekends, as I recall.
I have to make a note to ask my shrink if my drugs are making me forget things. Last week I forgot to ask him. I also seem to sleep a lot. I should mention that, too.
I asked her why we never go anywhere together. I don't remember what she said but I didn't ask again.
When we first got married, we did everything together, and I enjoyed it as I remember. What I don't remember is when we started doing things separately.
It's just that I have a lot on my mind now, stuff that the shrink can't help me with, like my OCD. Every problem, every decision I have to relive multiple times to no end.
It's seven o'clock. The dog. I forgot to feed the dog breakfast. I'll have to walk him, too, unless I just let him out in the backyard.
A car pulled up. It was her. The dog went nuts. He never goes nuts for me.
"I thought you weren't coming home until Sunday evening," I said, proud of myself.
"It IS Sunday evening."
"But it's still so bright outside." "It's summertime honey."
"Oh," was all I could muster. "You haven't shaved. Did you at least take a shower?"
With that I shut up.