"Please remember the chicken cannelloni tonight, Donald. Last time I prepared something for you there was mold growing on it by the time I came home."

"Well, I've always wanted to live life dangerously," I answered my wife, trying to ease the tension I'd been feeling since we left the house. We had plenty of time to get to the airport before her flight to Denver, and I couldn't believe the usual morning rush hour traffic bothered her, even though I was driving her brand new Cadillac.

Priscilla continued to stare straight ahead. "All you need to do is put it in the microwave. I left the directions on top. Surely you can do something as simple as that."

"I promise I won't forget," I said, gripping the steering wheel tighter. I found myself glancing towards Priscilla; something about her composure seemed different this morning. She seemed resolved, and yet, at the same time resigned, as if she had worked out a difficult problem to less than a satisfactory conclusion. I wondered what it could be, she'd seemed so confident reviewing her presentation last night.

"Donald!" she snapped disapprovingly as I crossed two lanes of madly honking traffic to get onto the airport exit lane. I braced myself for her usual lecture about safe driving, but instead she occupied herself with her makeup mirror. Always perfect out in public; and that annoyed me more than her incessant nagging. So much that I almost rear-ended a car waiting to turn into the airport.

The sound of screeching brakes wasn't half as menacing as her steely silence.

"Call me tomorrow?" she asked as I handed her suitcase to a porter. I was dropping her off in front of the terminal, a no parking zone, so our conversation was hurried and brief.

"You know I won't forget. Nine o'clock sharp," I said, already halfway back into the car, anxious to call Jennifer.

Before she went through the doors she turned and yelled: "Don't forget the cannelloni. Please!"

I waved mechanically, then quickly merged into the stream of traffic. "Thank god I don't own a gun," I exhaled, all my tenseness releasing like a flood washing over a dam.

Once on the freeway I dialed Jennifer, letting it ring until I saw in my driver's side mirror a motorcycle cop coming up on me in the next lane, and I had to drop my cell phone on to the seat beside me.

For a brief second I felt like a teenager again, an illicit phone call to my illicit girlfriend.

I met Jennifer three months ago on a flight back from Atlanta. I'd just endured a long weekend of browbeating from Corporate and she, fresh out of college, was eagerly anticipating her new job with another dubious Seattle start up. Another advancing wave of technology too complex for a modern day Willy Loman like me to understand.

Nothing to do but go to the office where my secretary, Beth, handed me a couple pink message slips as I walked past her desk. I flipped through them, sales calls, but no message from Jennifer. I tried calling her cell again, but still she didn't answer.

I shuffled claims papers for awhile, a litany of cheaters and whiners trying to drag my flailing agency down with them, before the phone rang. I grabbed it desperately. "Jennifer!"

"Whoa, buddy. It's me, Sam. You've missed three rounds of golf with the boys and I thought I'd see if you're still alive. Who's Jennifer?"

"Just a client, Sam" I stammered, defensively. I'd been golfing with Sam and a couple other cronies at least once a week, but lately what little time I could steal away had been committed to Jennifer. A part of me wanted to dump out all my frustration; but Sam wasn't that good a friend. I'd seen him flirting with Priscilla at country club parties often enough. "Been busy at the office. You know how it is."

"Right, Donnie boy," he answered. I could almost feel the sarcasm dripping through the phone. "Wish I could get a little more, 'busy at the office', time, too."

I agreed to meet him at the club for lunch. Liquid, of course. Sam had certainly increased his drinking since his divorce.

"Pretty soon you'll be able to retire; way Priscilla's consulting business is booming, hey?" He ordered a sandwich and a martini while eagerly eyeing the blonde waitress who served us.

"Bossing the whole world with her know-it-all-ness."

"Looks like her success is stressing you out, my friend. Better be nice to her or, who knows, she might just dump you for her own young playmate."

Was that some kind of wish fulfillment on Sam's part? "You seem happy enough?"

"Finally. Getting all I can handle, if you know what I mean," he boasted, though we both knew it was meant to be a joke. "But let me tell you, my divorce was brutal. Barbara would've liked nothing better than to hang me by my manhood at the time. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Not even my closest enemies."

I wondered if Sam saw me as an enemy now. I wouldn't put it past him. Priscilla had what an emasculated parasite like him wanted most, a financial gravy-train. "How did the settlement go, if you don't mind my asking."

"She took pretty much everything except my dignity. No woman is going to take that away from me."

"I think that'd be the worst thing I could take away from Priscilla. Certainly worth more than mere money to her."

"Looks, brains, and now money. You got yourself one hell of an impressive woman there, old buddy. You think you can't handle her anymore just let me know."

I watched Sam as he quickly finished off another martini, snapping his fingers to get the waitress's attention. His attempt to evade my scrutiny too obvious. I wondered how long he'd wait before trying to make his move with Priscilla if we ever decided to divorce. If he hadn't already?

Two martinis later, I left Sam and his endless recital of one-night conquests, wondering what my future would be like without Priscilla. As desperately lonely as Sam denied his really was now?

I tried calling Jennifer. Still no answer.

I drove around aimlessly, my mind a jumble of thoughts: Why was Jennifer giving me the brush-off already? The wrong direction my marriage seemed headed; not to mention my business. Where could I get a gun? Did I have the nerve? Next thing I know I almost rear-end a van with a "My Kid's An Honor Student" bumper sticker.

I needed another drink.

In a strip mall there was a Chinese restaurant with a cocktail lounge in back. I sat at the end of the bar and ordered a seven-seven. Two other lost souls like me sat at a table, their drinks sitting on ignored spread-sheets, while a angry looking young kid sat a few stools down.

The bartender placed my drink in front of me. "Sure is a hot one today," I said, feebly attempting to excuse myself for being in a bar at this time of day. "Day like this all you want to do is go home and beat the old lady."

The bartender forced a weak grin. "If she don't get to you first," he mumbled, then went back to washing glasses at the end of the bar.

I looked over at the kid, the polite smile still creasing my face. He stopped peeling the beer label off the bottle and stared at me. "Sometimes I think the only reason we're still married is because I don't own a gun," I laughed, weak and forced even to myself.

"You looking for one?" he asked.

I figured I'd play along with him and said, "Of course it'd have to be untraceable. First person the police look at when a wife is murdered is the husband, right?"