45. Let Me Smack a Gazelle

The love of my life disappears and her advice is, don’t worry?

On what planet would that be true?

To her, my absence solved a problem.

She would be “in touch.”

How long would I have to wait?

I tried calling. Her phone went instantly to voice mail.

She would be in touch with me. I would not be in touch with her. Doris held the cards.

She needed time to “think.”

About what? The quality of my character? I didn’t blame myself for the fact that Artie was dead. I didn’t blame myself for wanting a pile of loot that was my own.

Sure, the days of smacking a gazelle and dragging it back to the cave were over, but it was an idea ground into our male bones: to hunt, to provide, to win the gratitude of the little lady in her cute fur get-up. Money is the new meat.

What was wrong with trying to talk things through? Why couldn’t she offer me that courtesy?

Instead I got a few words scrawled on an envelope. And an AARP envelope at that! What was that supposed to mean? I knew I had fifteen years on her. Did she have to rub it in?

She needed time to think.

Well, who doesn’t? I had a lot to think about.

My phone rang.

Maybe it was Doris.

Maybe it wasn’t.

I didn’t bother to look.

I needed time to think.

Tomorrow: Damn me? Get in line!

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