The other day, my wife’s cell number popped up on my caller ID.
“Hi, Mary Ellen.”
“I adore you,” came the reply.
My wife is a loving person, but she is not given to romantic declarations on her way home from work. And yet, she added, “Sometimes, I can’t get through a minute without thinking about those romantic times we had in Rio.”
Ahhh…what could be more romantic than Rio? The problem is: I’ve never been to Rio. I kept listening: “While my husband is still alive, we will never find happiness. We have to get rid of him. Soon.”
I found this disconcerting. My wife has a delicious sense of humor. Maybe she was just having some fun—you know, pretending she had a boyfriend and that they were going to ice me.
Then I heard a man’s voice: “You are the brightest star in my galaxy, the cherry on my cake, the rose in my bouquet.”
It was bad enough my wife wanted me eliminated but being killed with clichés was not how I wanted my life to end.
When Mary Ellen got home, I let her know I was aware of her desire to have me whacked. I wasn’t subtle.
“Mary Ellen, you are the brightest star in my galaxy, the cherry on my cake, the rose in my bouquet.”
“I’m so embarrassed. How did you hear that?”
“You accidentally hit redial on your cellphone. I overheard the conversation in your car. How long has this been going on?”
“Since last month. I was trying to end it, but you know how hard that can be. Once you start something, you feel like you have to finish it. I’ll pay the penalty.”
“You’re certainly cavalier about the whole thing. How much longer do you see this continuing?”
“Not much longer. My book on CD was due at the library yesterday. It’s trashy, but I have enjoyed it.”
I’m glad Mary Ellen doesn’t want to liquidate me, but she is hurt that I was so suspicious. So far, I haven’t been man enough to say I’m sorry.
As of today, the apology and the CD are a day overdue.
