A Beautiful Wife

I met a man with a beautiful wife. He was a young Mexican half-breed with a good job and a nice car.

We visited for a few hours and went to watch the firemen deal with a smoking hassle down the street. Kitchen fire.

The booze was flowing but I wasn’t drinking. Had shit to do later.

He talked of family. “You sure found a pretty one, your wife. She’s a doll” I told him. “Yeah, I hear that a lot but you’re not married to her”.

There is that I suppose. I was married once.

Sometimes I wonder if the reason it’s so easy to see the beauty in another man’s wife is because I don’t know her well enough. She hasn’t turned on me, stabbed me in the back, stolen from me my ability to trust. Sucked my soul.

Some months later I saw him at a funeral and he was less then friendly. I don’t think it was in mourning a death. Death doesn’t hurt like that.

Women cause that kind of pain.

He’s married to her.


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