Disassociation

Although everything was fine when she left the apartment in the morning, the woman in front of me, chasing a radish around a salad plate, slumping in a way that even Nordstrom’s finest shoulder pads do nothing, is not my wife.

“What’s a matter, Lara?”

“The Journal. It’s not good anymore.”

“Oh?”

‘The editorial board met today.”

“How’s Jim?”

“Jim says we should stop writing-out the word ‘percent.’ Says it’s archaic not to. Says its right there on the keyboard.  Shift-five. “

“And?”

“And,” she begins to sob, “We voted on it.”

“I’m so sorry.” I leave my kale and scoot around the table to knead her shoulders.

From this vantage I can check on the isopod pulsing behind her ear. I’m horrified to find its dorsal plates have turned from their normal royal blue to a sickly jaundiced yellow.

“We also may stop italicizing common Latin phrases.”

“Oh, babe.”