“Oh! I almost forgot!”
She stands abruptly up from the kitchen table,
a mischievous little grin on her face.
“I have to remember to call Dennis.”
She writes the name “Denise”
on the whiteboard near the refrigerator
on which she makes notes to herself
about what she needs to do
or items she needs to buy
at the grocery store. “Who’s Dennis?” I ask,
looking down at my plate,
trying to be nonchalant.
“Oh, I knew you’d ask,
as soon as I said it, I knew you’d wonder,
you’re so cute. There is no Dennis, silly.
I have to call Denise,”
she says, satisfied as hell
that I get jealous still
over any little thing.
“That was funny,” she adds
and walks, more sashays, out of the room.

————

Michael Estabrook is still crazy in love with his wife Patti of over 30 years and loves doing the rumba with her which goes pretty much like this:

(At this point, Michael wrote a lengthy poem about dancing with his wife, which, I assure you, is quite vigorous. We’ll let you use your imagination there!)