oss Douthat woke up on the couch again. This was the third day that Abbie had kicked him out of the connubial bliss that had been their bedroom, and the second morning that his shifting weight in his sleep had triggered the remote to show the Playboy Channel, which likely meant that he will be sleeping on the couch again tonight.
The note on the coffee table confirmed his continued exile as a fact.
“A wife should yield to her husband,” he muttered to himself, “but noooooooo.” Looking into the bathroom mirror, Douthat noted more hair loss. “I should give’em all names and have a funeral for each one,” he groused as he performed the mornings ablutions, noting with some grim satisfaction that his resemblance to Kelsey Grammer was all but complete. “If I go bald, it’s her fault. A man has needs.”
“I’ll buy her flowers and apologize,” he thought, “although I don’t know what I am apologizing for.”
Pouring his Special K into the plain stoneware bowl (“Pinch more than an inch, fuckers”), Douthat looked for his customary banana. “Dammit, now she’s punishing me by taking away my banana. What does she want? Freud was right, but he didn’t go far enough. Women don’t know what they want, either. Nothing makes them happy. Nothing.”
Banana-less, Douthat walked to the Dell, which groaned to life with a whir, and his fingers started flying, as if own their own.