I was once told by an electric psychic that I would die in a car crash in Montana on a sweet summer day in June in the year 2013. It didn’t happen. But the light bulbs we had for dinner last night were delicious. They illuminated my guts, and she could then see what I was feeling for real as we sat across from each other at the round table with the big candle in the middle. There was a lot of crunching going on and they say that eating glass isn’t good for you, that it can cut your guts to ribbons and then you will float away to the great ZOO in the sky and hang out with the gibbons, swinging from pearly gate to pearly gate with fury motivation and momentum.

“Pass the beans. Pass the barbecue sauce. Pass the don’t you have any manners?”

The next night our neighbor from across the hall had crock-potted some brisket but apparently, he didn’t cook it right and it came out all stringy and overly wet and he pounded on our door and said he had way more than he could eat himself and so he gave us some.

“I have potatoes too. Take some. Eat them. Enjoy them.”

We had only been married for 41 days and already she was getting on my nerves. She was making me climb the walls of our small pad across from the milkshake factory in a big city far, far away from wherever you are right now, so don’t try to go there, you won’t find it. We do not live on any map or globe. I read books when she bores the hell out of me. She has a strange fascination with cheese. Every time we go to the grocery store down and around, she quickly makes for the Department of Deli to peruse the plethora of cheeses they have there. So much cheese that I can’t believe, and they all have weird names and weird shapes and there are so many I do not remember, nor have I cataloged them. She has to look them over closely; she tries to smell them through the wrapping, she shakes them like an unopened Christmas present as if some pile of diamonds was just going to come falling out and then she wouldn’t need me anymore.

The crock-potter knocked on the door again to see if we would be interested in his lemon chicken and sausage feast. The stereo was blaring, and the chick was belly dancing, and I could not hear him knocking at first until he nearly bashed in the door.

“I crock-potted some lemon chicken and sausage, and, you know me, I made too much again.”

“Come in, you know my wife the belly dancer, right?”

“Absolutely. That’s one fine belly you got there.”

She stopped dancing, turned, and jumped out the window.

“Holy belly flop!” That’s what the crock-potter said.

“Don’t worry about her; she does that all the time.”

He went to the window and sure enough saw her rolling across the small patch of lawn and then she went running around in circles and down the street.

“Where is she going?”

“I don’t know, she’s insane and we barely communicate.”

“But you’re married. Surely you have some kind of convos?”

“Nope.”

“Then why did you marry her?”

“I don’t know. She told me about a mysterious island and that intrigued me. She said she would take me there, but now I’m thinking it was all a bunch of bullshit.”

“Your apartment is small.”

“Care for a cigar?”

“Got any Pink Floyd?”

I rummaged through the record collection throwing albums here and there trying to find a Pink Floyd record.

“Nope, sorry. I must have eaten it.”

“Well, I’m going to go home then and prepare my menu for tomorrow.”

“Any ideas?”

“Tuna casserole.”

*****

I sat on the couch reading a book about antique rocking horses when she came flying in the door all sweaty and out of breath.

I looked up at her.

“What the hell is going on?”

“The world is on fire!”

“What are you talking about?”

She pointed to the window.

“Look!”

I closed my book and went to the window. It seemed absurd and impossible, but she was right. The world WAS on fire. Everywhere I looked there was burning going on. Everywhere I looked there was black smoke rising from the Earth and spiraling up toward God’s red velvet footstool. It was all orange and maniacal. It was the bombs, the bombs, the bombs, they had come raining down like a lava thunderstorm of human parking lots of lost and twisted souls.

“I’m too tired for this shit,” and I closed the curtains, went into the bedroom and closed the door.

She came knocking.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m tired. I need to rest up. Tomorrow will most likely be a pretty rough day.”

“You dumb bastard! This is hardly the time to be sleeping.”

“What do you propose I do then, eh? As if anything would even matter my dear.”

“I want a divorce!”

“Good! So do I. Now leave me be so I can get some rest.”

I heard her stomp away and then the front door slammed. It was beginning to get very hot in the room and I turned on the fan. The breeze felt like winter in Bermuda and I was hungry for pineapple. I telephoned the crock-potter.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s your neighbor.”

“Oh, hi!”

“Listen, I know the world is burning to bits and pieces, but I was wondering if you had a good recipe for glazed ham, you know, the kind where you put the round slices of pineapple on top.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“I could crock-pot a ham and throw some pineapple chunks in there. Would that be OK?”

I thought about it. Damn, the apartment was getting really hot.

“Yeah, that sounds pretty good.”

“I’m excited.”

“So am I. Just don’t screw it up like you did the brisket.”

The bedroom roof caved in.