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Jon Swan
"This isn't about you," she said. "This is about me."
You felt like asking her why she had thrown all your clothes in the front yard if it wasn't about you.
But you didn't.
You just stood there and listened as she complained about men.
Men who loved her.
Men who lied to her.
Men who fucked her.
Men who left her.
None of these men seemed to be you.
Why was that? You were a man after all, her husband of more than a decade.
And yet you didn't even seem to rate.
You watched as she stomped on your khaki pants with her muddy gardening shoes.
You stared as she tossed shirts and socks and underwear into the air
like some disappointed child at Christmas.
You were transfixed as the clothes danced in the sunlight and the sound of your wife's voice rose to a scream then tumbled to a muffled, anguished cry.
You studied her a moment longer, then walked to the porch where you picked up the yellow clothes basket.
Slowly, you moved around the yard collecting the clothes, muttering "Fuck you very much" each time you deposited an item in the basket.
When you were done, all that remained was a crumpled, crying woman in a pink bathrobe.
You took out your cell phone and called 911.
They asked you what the trouble was.
You said it was your wife.
Your wife had lost something.
They asked you what she had lost.
And you said, "Her mind."