mother-fucker, shit,” I say.
The woman gasps.
“He’s not saying truck,” the man says, laughing.
“Don never swears.”
“Yes, I do,” I say.
*
*
*
My wife tells me I’m different.
“Than what?” I say
“Than before.”
The crease in her forehead deepens, and as I stare
at her, I wonder if she’s always had the dark puffy circles
beneath her eyes. For eight months she’s been saying the
same thing, and it makes me crazy. There isn’t a reference
point inside for me to compare. It’s not like I lost a limb,
there aren’t any phantom feelings to draw upon. When I
look at my reflection, it’s me looking back. Inside and out.
How can I fix something that doesn’t seem broken?
“I’m not saying it to judge or hurt your feelings.”
She turns down the TV and, snuggling close to me
on our living room sofa, rests her hand on my lap. She
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