I shake my head. Someone has to tell him the truth. Someone has to make my husband realize his destiny: the unforgiving last days of his life; the close of a novel he has created; the curtain being pulled after his play titled In Bed for Eighteen Months. “Chance is coming. He’ll put some sense in you. You’ve always listened to him. But I won’t be asking him about the blowjobs you’ve given him. We won’t talk about you enjoying him too much.”
“Chance is a big doofus. A dumb jock. A tight end. Beautifully dumb. All he knows about is football. He doesn’t know anything about headaches, aneurisms, healthcare, and dying.”
“You don’t give him any credit. You never have. Not in high school. Not when we were in our twenties. Not when you were sleeping with him behind my back. Not now in our mid-fo
