An Affair To Remember
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From: Peter Langston <psl>
Date: Fri, 26 Jul 96 22:00:24 -0700
Subject: An Affair To Remember
Forwarded-by: Keith Bostic <email@example.com>
Forwarded-by: Keith Sullivan <KSullivan@worldnet.att.net>
Forwarded-by: David Barbour <David.N.Barbour@cc.gettysburg.edu>
AN AFFAIR TO REMEMBER -- What Did I Do to Deserve This?
-- Patrick O'Neill, From the Oregonian
"Morning sweetie," I said, my head still buried in my pillow. "Who's
Angela?" my wife asked in the tone Mike Wallace uses when he and the "60
Minutes" cameras are chasing some poor jerk down a sidewalk.
A million years of evolution have given married guys in suburbia a sixth
sense about that tone, a sense that tells them exactly when to be absolutely
truthful, answering all questions fully and without reservation.
"I don't know any Angela," I said.
"Oh, I know you don't," Kathleen said, slamming the alarm button down.
"it's just that I dreamed you left the kids and me for some Angela woman.
I've been awake for hours getting madder and madder."
"Silly girl," I muttered drowsily, snuggling deeper into the blankets.
Kathleen threw back the covers with considerably more force than
circumstances required and got out of bed.
"It was just a dream," I reminded her, hoping for two more minutes of
unconsciousness. "I'm here with you and our children. I'm not leaving.
Never, never, never."
The shower door banged shut, and I drifted off. Suddenly a wet towel hit me
in the face.
"Sorry, hon, I was aiming for the hamper," Kathleen said. "Anyway, you and
Angela were living in one of those luxury condos. ..."
"That's crazy! Child support would wipe me out. I couldn't afford to live
under a bridge if I left you -- which I have no plans to do."
"Angela's a surgeon," my wife replied scathingly, "with an international
reputation. She's filthy rich."
"Listen, I know dreams can seem pretty realistic sometimes," I said
soothingly. "But you're the woman of my dreams."
"You want to know what really hurt?" she asked ignoring me completely.
"The kids went to visit one weekend, and Angela made teddy-bear pancakes.
With little raisin eyes. The children talked about those for days.
"They also told me she spent hours rubbing your shoulders," Kathleen
continued morosely. "Sometimes she'd sit at your feet on that spotless
white carpet -- 'It's like snow, Mom' -- and gaze up at you, laughing at
every stupid little thing you said. Darn! Your watch fell in the sink.
"Kathleen, I couldn't love a surgeon, they're notoriously self-centered and
"Angela works among the poor," Kathleen said. "The President gave her
some kind of plaque. There she was on TV, saying, 'Others deserve this
far more than I do.' I almost threw up. Oh, here's that tennis shoe
you've been looking for. Oops, are you all right?"
The bruise probably wouldn't show unless I went swimming or something.
"I think you're being a little hard on Angela," I said. "She sounds like a
pretty nice person."
"She's a vicious little home wrecker, and if you ever so much as look at her
again, you'll need more than a world-renowned surgeon to put you back
Later that day I sent Kathleen flowers. It's just a start, of course. When
someone like Angela comes into your life, it takes a while to patch things up.
© 1996 Peter Langston