My wife was worried when I told her of
the plot line of my favorite movie. How
it was about a murder. Did I love
the plot because a wife was killed, and now
she had to worry, possibly, that I
would murder her or at the very least
I didn’t really love her. Should she flee
from me before I proved myself a beast?
I couldn’t understand that she had thought
that I would even think of that at all.
I mean I know I’m dense, but still she ought
to know I’d never think of such a thing.
The movie about murdering a wife
is just a comedy. It isn’t life.