Meg Pokrass

This is Not Autobiographical

We had din­ner that night at a rat-hole, a Godforsaken grill, a place we had tried to avoid and had done suc­cess­ful­ly for thir­ty years. We would have to cel­e­brate our thir­ti­eth wed­ding anniver­sary at Vito’s. This anniver­sary was sup­posed to be a fes­tive occa­sion for any cou­ple, but even more for peo­ple who have not touched the oth­er in twen­ty years of a pro­duc­tive, thir­ty-year mar­riage.

First thing in the morn­ing we shook hands, high-fived and said “yay.”  I cleared my sinus­es and Bob per­formed nasal irri­ga­tion with his Neti Pot. We want­ed to feel ready for a cel­e­bra­tion of fam­i­ly val­ues. We was sweet. Underlying the mean news­pa­pers lived an angel with nails of purl. We were both very near­sight­ed.

Well,” said Bob.
“This calls for a bit of meat!”

This meant that Bob and I would set­tle for din­ner at the squat, brick steak house on the place, the only place NOT full of pole-dancers from the Annual Conference and work­shop here. Slim women with five-inch, spiky heels, in town again, hold­ing hands, with men­stru­al con­cerns. Around the city, they clip-clopped.

As usu­al, we went every­where with­out a car. We were the oppo­site of neg­li­gent. Long ago, we had a bro­ken car which we sold to the wash­er and dry­er repair-man. He nev­er spoke to us again.