confession

I have a confession to make.

Remember how last night you called, and I told you I was sick, and you offered to bring Indian food?

Remember how I said no?

Well, I wasn’t really that sick. And I ordered the Indian food anyway.

And 30 minutes later when I went to pick it up, I saw you there with First Wife and her family.

When I use the phrase “First Wife”, I don’t mean it literally, of course.

I know that, technically, she was never really your first wife. Just like, technically, I was never really your second. The whole Sister Wives thing was just a little joke I made up at your grandmother’s funeral. We were all there in the pew together—your kids and your kids’ moms—and it just kind of popped out.

It seemed funny at the time.

Of course, what doesn’t seem funny at a Catholic funeral? Am I right? Just try to tell me you didn’t get a little case of the giggles when our son played Metallica’s “Unforgiven” on the organ.

Beautiful song, though.

Anyway, I saw you guys at the restaurant.

I was going to say hello…

Okay, you’re right. I wasn’t.

Actually, did you notice that little Bengali man on the floor covered in lassi? That was my fault. I accidentally knocked him over in my haste to get back out the door.

It’s not that big of a deal.

Yes, I do know that her parents were in from out of town. I just told you I was at the restaurant. I saw them.

Of course. I agree. They have always been so nice to me. Without fail, from the very first time I met them.

Do you remember? We were camping in New Mexico. You told me you had a surprise for me, and you brought me to their house.

Wow. That’s right. I had totally forgotten this. Your surprise was to bring me—your new girlfriend—to your x-girlfriend’s house. In another state. To meet her parents.

I think they could tell that I wanted to cry. They were beyond kind.

But hey. That suddenly reminds me.

What the fuck were you thinking?

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