the time I reached the Narrows Bridge.
No, I’m his appetizer. The cheapo one, Calamari! No, a cheap won ton!
I'm just a bowl of soup made from leftovers, no, just a salad. I’m tossed green, no shrimp or crab, not even blue cheese just spinach!
Turning off I-5 I dropped to just snack food and pulling into the driveway it was just a potato chip, a chip without a dip.
I worked myself into a fury of how he treated me as I undressed but when showering bursting out laughing, I had it all wrong.
He's the potato chip. He's junk food. It's time to diet!
Out in the yard I trimmed roses, feeling better as I laughed about Mr. Potato Chip. My entrée would be home soon. I went back in the house and started cooking for him.
While things were in the oven I redressed and put on fresh makeup. We ate with candle light and a bottle of pinot wine. After dessert we had Drambuie to warm the glow of our repast. I was again a wife. I enjoyed making and being my husband's entrée, back to who I really was.
I erased thoughts of Mr. Potato Chip, put him in the kid’s Mr. Potato Head category, a joke.
The confrontation by his true love, her slung shoe, her, ”bitch fucking whore” slur, my shoulder pain, unimportant, left behind, so I assumed.