The Cat's Pajamas

“Gotcha once, twice, forty times Gotcha!”

“Wait!”

Walter reared up, clutching his blanket.

“Grab your ears! While you were in Panama, Abbey and I had a wildcat fun-feast!”

“I would have heard.”

“Since when do husbands hear? Remember her wine tour in Provence?”

“Right.”

“Wrong. She was in Paris drinking champagne from my golf shoes!”

“Golf shoes!?”

“Paris was our nineteenth green! World championships! Then Morocco!”

“She never went!”

“Was there, did that! Rome! Guess who was her tour guide!? Tokyo! Stockholm!”

“Her parents were Swedish!”

“I gave her the Nobel Prize. Brussels, Moscow, Shanghai, Boston, Cairo, Oslo, Denver, Dayton!”

“Stop, oh God, stop! Stop!”

I stopped and, like in old movies, stepped to the window and had a cigarette.

I could hear Walter crying. I turned and saw that he had swung his legs out, letting the tears drip off his nose to the floor.

“You son of a bitc

h!” he gasped.

“Right.”

“Bastard!”

“Indeed.”

“Monster!”

“Yes?”

“Best friend! I’ll kill you!”

“Catch me first!”

“Then wake and kill you again!”

“What’re you doing?”

“Getting outta bed, dammit! Come here!”

“Naw.” I opened the door and looked out. “Bye.”