When I Leave Town

Here’s a piece I wrote about what happens when I leave town:

He waited until I left to test the fireplace because I told him I didn’t want any part of that. Now I must live with the image of him and the little black dog running through the condo trying to escape the smoke. He opened the windows, he said, to create a draft up the chimney, which, mind you, the seller listed on the disclosure sheet as a decorative element. Cross ventilation, he said. All it did was chase the smoke through the condo. Chased the man waving the smoke through the condo. Chased the dog through the condo. Four days later in forty degree weather, he’s living with open windows.

This is what happens when I leave town. Adult supervision, out the window…literally. He found a nutritional guru on the internet. The man is a monk. The monk says you’re going to hell if you eat breakfast. He’s stopped eating breakfast, he who is our cook. This does not bode well for me. He’s intaking no food until noon. “Those monks live forever, you know,” he says. He’s lived seventy-seven healthy years eating breakfast. He’s lost four pounds. I won’t recognize my husband when I get home. Or my used-to-be life.

I’ve been gone five days.

When we talked on the phone, he chose to tell me these developments. The smoke. The guru. His new eating. Full of enthusiasm. Usually, I am the talker. This energy, his voice light—I can see him smiling, eyes sparkling. Tickling himself with his stories. Maybe I need to quit talking so much.

I’m so sorry but you won’t hear the end of the story. (I hate it when people tell a story to make a point then end the story before the plot ends.) Did my marriage survive this new initiative? How much weight did he lose? Did the monk wind up in jail for fraud? Does your condo still smell of smoke? How IS your pup?

Only time will tell if it all went out the window.