I said, “but i love you.”
she said, “Go suck a
rotten lime.”
i pleaded— “Please. C’mon, cupcake,
i love the way you burn the watermelon meatloaf.”
“Oh, well,” —she said—
“maybe i’ll come back to you, but only if you
promise to let the platypus out when he has to
go to the bathroom.”
“No problem” —i answered— “but
let me leave my stinky underwear on the dinner
table.”
“Well” —she replied—
“but don’t spit your
cereal at the kids anymore.”
“Maybe” —I said, feeling trapped—
“but you know i can’t
live without my hourly dose of Greasy Squeezy Cheezy Jello
Pudding Pop-Tarts.”
“i don’t know — well, O.K., but
you have to cook breakfast everyday at 4:45 P.M.”
    “but” —I replied, stinkously— “you’re not home then.”
    “i know—” she grimaced “—but that way, you can have
all the leftovers you don’t want for supper. Ha Ha Ha Ha!”
    I began to cry, shabbily, even flabbily, for happiness,
and we embraced, thinking of the many more years
we would spend together, in crappiness... er, i mean — happiness.