Dandelions In January

It had been a miserable year. My wife finally left me after screwing around with a guy she met while working on a publicity gig, thinking I didn’t know. Having done the same thing during the first years of our marriage, I was well aware of the signs and the first whiff put me on my guard. 

It was the night she told me she had to work late and left me a shrimp casserole—my absolute favorite food—in the fridge to heat up for my dinner, explaining in a note that she didn’t know what time she would be home. When I was involved in a fuckin’ hot affaire, I hadn’t left anything for her to chew on...except suspicion.

Did I tell her I knew that she wasn’t working? Of course I didn’t. Do you think I’m stupid? I wanted her to leave more signs until she was so involved that there was no way for her to excuse herself. But I hadn’t anticipated—or planned—for her to simply get up and leave...and not even a shrimp casserole to console me. Inconsiderate, that’s what it was.

I called our kids to tell them what their mother had done, but all I got was silence. I didn’t leave a message; what for? They would only side with their mother, calling me an asshole for having done the same thing to her, that I deserved her walking out on me.

I called her mother. Despite being my mother-in-law, we had always had a good relationship. She was fair, never taking sides. Something must have been wrong with her phone line because all I got was static. 

I called my own mother, but then remembered that she was on a cruise around the world and might be asleep, so I hung up before it went to voicemail. 

I was restless. I needed to confess to someone how I felt.

“I was hoping you would come,” Adele greeted me as I walked in. 

“I was miserable,” I told her.

“Staying late at the office can be a drag...especially when there’s nothing that is so urgent that you feel you must,” she said, offering me a whiskey on ice.

“Yeah, it can be an excuse,” I said, taking the drink and sitting on the sofa.

“Well, Henry, you can always count on me to have the solution.”  I followed her into the kitchen and sat at the kitchen table set for two, watching her as she took a casserole out of the oven.

“Shrimp, your favorite,” setting the dish in front of me. 

“You’re so good to me, Adele.”

“Henry, you always seem surprised.”

“I always am. How many wives know exactly how their husbands feel and what will get them out of their depressed state,” I said.

“Now, don’t tell me you phoned our kids, my mother, and your mother, because you know we never had children, my mother died 15 years ago, and your mother never answers her phone. I think you do all this because you know I’ll bake your favorite food for dinner when you tell me you’ll be staying late at the office. Now let’s eat; I’m starved.”