After twenty one years of marriage, my husband is watching football on our anniversary. It was just happenstance that I met the old hippie. It started as friendship, not all Capulet and Montague. He was just a distraction. I was in this self-destructive relationship with an inked guy who spoke in all tautology, always saying things like “I’m a thalassophile, a lover of the sea.” Or “Our relationship is ephemeral. It will last only a short time.” Until I went all virago on him.
Anyway, I want to do something different on our anniversary, like parachute, or build a dodecahedron, hula hoop, search the woods for truffles, shave off his pedostasche, spangew a basilisk into the mouth of a ravenous dog. I sigh, exasperated. Just something . . . Anything to turn the destitute atelactasis of our relationship back into marital bliss.