I take him to Bikram – he calls it “concentration camp yoga”. He has to stop smoking and cannot, so that I can stop sneaking his cigarettes which I started doing when being the woman broke me. He volunteers to take Chantix and admits to preferring a vasectomy over quitting smoking. I know only one treatment for bonkers like that, so off we go, him looking a lot like I’m dragging him there behind the car. “Yes, let’s go do half-moon pose in a crematoria, that sounds like a great fucking idea!” He practices behind me where I can keep an eye on him in the mirror. He wants to kill me then appears utterly abject, accepting his sentence. I should have let him wear the Cougar Bait t-shirt to lighten the mood, but it probably wouldn’t have helped. I think: even when the man is good and there is nothing to lament in how we act towards each other and we are careful of that, still life comes and it hurts a lot sometimes and so these moments arrive when I look at you and feel love as a stab wound. And this is a great blessing, I believe, to have come to that ouch-I-love-you rather than the stab being the first sign like huh I’m doubled over I must love you or some shit…right?