I believe he’s divorced. We all did that in our youth, when first we came upon a fine story; else we were worthless metal indeed. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. He reeled, and crashed to the floor. “Hello? She’s like, your girlfriend, not mine. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor.
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