Tom, who has been bedded down with the grundge all week, sneezing, hacking and spewing nasal mucous into a thousand tissues, has now come down with pink eye. So far it is just one eye, but that one eye is loathsome: puffed, red and seeping yet another bodily fluid. Poe could write a short story about this eye,
We sleep in different bedrooms. Initially, we parted over the noises he made when falling off to sleep. I'm not talking about the coughing. This is a new terror: snoring and prattling in his sleep. Tom has always been a quiet sleeper, but now his bronchial passages roar at night. I shove him, and say, "You're snoring," and then, "Tom, stop!"
He moved voluntarily to the guest room across the hall. If it hadn't been that, the pink eye would have forced him out. The pink eye is ugly. I have anti-ugly rules. The pink eye offends my delicate sensibilities. I may have to buy him a pirate patch. I'll throw in a studded sword and a chest filled with Mardi Gras beads.
This is the old marriage, I think. Separate bedrooms, parallel lives. He watches foreign movies on his laptop. I'm looking for apartments in NYC and then fall off to sleep watching reruns of Inspector Morse. Sometimes we yell at each other through closed doors: "Yo!"