There were spiritual difficulties. She simply would not drain away the nonsense. She had no outpourings of generous beauty. She halted all discussions of our future beyond sharing my bed. I did not have excellent teeth and was a ruin for her mother. I was felled by her demonstration of the verb whine. The stars when I looked at them seemed irregular. I was always stopping short of bodily anguish. Her hectoring had no halting. Nature did not have a command of words and remained uncommunicative. There was just the cool moon and me with a heart of oak.
The one who has it right is the guy standing on the Six-Mile Highway happily shouting, “I’m leaving another woman on her front porch shaking her fist at me!” A guy like me with ice-cream stains on his shirt, who might otherwise spend many hours alone and loving his dog.
“Sparky, I’m back!” 