“Uh-uh. Nope. Come on, let’s go.” I even make a little move toward the door to prove how open I am to her bringing her “little friend” to the party with us, but she’s not buying it. “I’ll go get the chairs out of the garage.”

“Well, just get one because I’m not going.”

“Honey, please, come on …”

“I’m not,” and with that the tank is pulled over her head and off. She smirks as she throws it onto the bed, turning to me in her faded pink brassiere.

“Sweetie, I wasn’t …”

“Satisfied now?”

I stare long and hard at her chest for a moment—not her best feature—trying to gather my thoughts. I lose myself in her cleavage, mostly because it allows me to avoid her eyes while absently noticing that both breasts have dropped another quarter inch or so since the last time I studied them—the right one perhaps slightly more than the other. I also spot that dusky birthmark just outside the ring of her left nipple (which I always thought looked like the state of Ohio but never said a word about it to her). A flash suddenly goes through my head of freshman English back at Pepperdine, where some teaching assistant forced us to read that Nathaniel Hawthorne guy. A short story of his that had to do with some flaw in an otherwise lovely woman, but I can’t remember any of the specifics about it for the life of me. Not with her glaring at me, anyway. The missus.

“If that’s what you want, then fine.”

“It’s what you want!”

“No, it isn’t.” I see the broken bottle of an argument at our feet and try to step gingerly around it. “It was just a question.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying!” And I don’t feel as if I am, not really. Not at this specific moment, at least. “Honestly, I’m not.”

“Just go without me, I’m tired now.”

“Well, OK, if you want me to …”

“See, I knew you didn’t want me to come!”

“Jesus, please, I don’t wanna do this right now! I asked you one thing, one, and you get all nuts on me here …”

“Go, then, I don’t care! Just GO!!” And with that she swings around and marches off to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Slams it so hard that an actual cracking sound is made when the latch catches on the jam. With her gone for a moment, I can freely roll my eyes and check my hair before walking over to make the obvious and required plea for her to forgive me and join me at the event. I do it, that little dance near the wall—calling out her name a few times and then promising her the world. Thankfully, she’s pretty angry with me and stays put. Mission accomplished.