Living apart from my beloved lovely bride five days of the week is an ordeal. Living without a car in a town that values public transportation about as much as Chicago values honest politicians is almost as bad. Being stuck in the Murray Hill Pike ranch house from Monday through Friday is not quite a prison but it'll do as a metaphor.
It's gotten to the point that I've begun talking to the cats. No not, baby-talk, goo-goo, daddy-loves-his-little-girl pap. I leave that for The Loved One. Er, I mean, I leave it for her to talk to the cats that way - not that I talk to her like that. My contributions to our colloquys are usually limited to grunts and shrugs.
By talking to the cats, I mean, for instance, that when I finish writing a story I may read it out loud just to hear the sound of it as the female puss, Terra, dozes next to my laptop. My orations never fail to awaken her. She stares at me, probably trying to figure out if I'm barking out a warning or I'm just losing what's left of my mind. When I finish my recitations, I ask her, "How was that? Pretty good, huh?" To which she responds by licking her nether areas and then drifting back to sleep.
Or, say the male, Boutros, decides to emerge from whatever hiding place he's chosen for the morning. As he pads by, I might say, "Well, hello Big Man! How are you? Where've you been? Do you want to hear me read my piece as well?"
He merely keeps an eye on me as he digs into the litter box, does his business, and then goes back into seclusion.
Now I know how The Loved One feels when she tries to start a conversation with me.
Anyway, it wouldn't be a shock for anyone to hear that one or both members of a couple in a long-distance relationship have dallied about in infidelities. Not that I've even considered sowing a single stray oat. Heaven forbid! Why, I'm an honorable man and I have too much love and respect for my partner-for-life to break our trust. Besides, I'm 53 years old with a bad heart and an enlarged prostate. Women aren't exactly clawing at each other to get at me these days.
As for The Loved One's adherence to our bond, I believe that she's remaining pure in south central Indiana. Now that doesn't sound like a hotbed of flaming desire but she is, after all, still quite a hot number and there are probably more than a few randy cougar-hunters prowling around the environs of Indiana U. But marriage is nothing if it doesn't include trust.
Does The Loved One react to her own doubts in kind? Maybe not. She seemed awfully curious about someone I wrote about a couple of weeks ago. I told the story of Tammy, who considers herself, like me, as good or better an ex than a spouse.
"So," The Loved One asked, trying to sound casual, "is she pretty?"
Shrug.
"Do you see her over at Dick's Pizza often?"
Grunt.
"You two are pretty friendly, huh?"
Shrug and grunt.
Finally, she cut to the chase. "Well, do you like her?"
Now honey, I said, don't be silly. There's nothing going on. Besides, if I was trying to hide something from you, would I write about her in a public blog?
This seemed to mollify her. I'd hate to think of her tossing and turning in her sublet apartment wondering if I'm in the throes of passion with another but, then again, it's nice to know this old gasbag can still ignite a spark of jealousy. Not that I'd go out of my way to do so.
For instance, after I won this week's Trivia contest at Dick's, Icepick Mark (so-called because the Icepick is his cocktail of choice) offered me a ride home. I was feeling lazy so I took him up on it despite the common knowledge that he feels an evening is wasted if he hasn't indulged in at least a half dozen of his favorite refreshments.
I got in, tightened my seatbelt, grasped the oh-shit handle above the door for dear life and off we went. As we lurched out of the parking lot, Icepick Mark began telling me some convoluted tale that I'd have difficulty following under normal circumstances. His narration, though, now was competing for space in my mind with images of me flying through his windshield like a bald bullet.
To top it off, Icepick Mark was heading in the wrong direction. I hoped to interrupt him the next time he paused for air, but his tale ran non-stop. Finally, about a mile down the road, I said, "Pardon me, Mark?"
"Yeah?"
"Um, where are we going?"
"Well, it would seem logical that we're heading toward your house."
"Yes, that's true. Only my house is in the other direction."
"No it isn't."
"Hmm. I'm guessing I'm right on this point."
"Well, the last time I took you home, you had me drop you off at an apartment behind the shopping center."
"I've never lived behind the shopping center."
"Oh yeah. I remember distinctly."
"Be that as it may, I live in the other direction."
"Okay," he said, as if indulging me in a whim. "But I distinctly remember dropping you off there. You must have a girlfriend there."
To which I responded, Ha ha.
"No, really. You've got something going on over there. I know it."
With that, Icepick Mark executed a breathtaking u-turn and drove me home. As I exited his pickup truck and thanked him for the ride (and my lucky stars for my safe arrival), Icepick Mark iterated, "You've got a girlfriend over there. I know I dropped you off there."
I shrugged and grunted.
Now I'm worried. What if The Loved One happens to come with me to Dick's one day and Icepick Mark, lubed with his favorite refreshment, decides to tell the tale of my girlfriend who lives in an apartment behind the shopping center? I'll deny it, of course, because I'm innocent. No matter, though, philanderers always claim they're innocent as well.
Sheesh. The damnedest things.
