Do I love my wife? Of all the questions there are to ask—this is what the woman sitting across from me wants to know. It’s a simple question, really. Which should make the answer simple. But then, the truth is far from simple, and in our case, particularly lately, the answer’s not even close to black and white.
this It wasn’t always this way. But you know that.
I don’t answer—at least, not right away. It isn’t her eyes I watch as she frames the next question, it’s her lips. They linger, moving slowly as she speaks, and it doesn’t help matters any that they’re painted a striking shade of red. This color is a stretch for a so-called professional, and then, of course, there’s the other issue—the fact that her top is unbuttoned two buttons below what I’d consider appropriate. Still, I preten
