Images by Sue Bartfield

The Man Who Took Leave of His Wife

The man took leave of his wife, who was busy rolling large balls of lint into an even larger ball of lint from which she would, come wintertime, pull handfuls of lint to use as tinder in the fireplace, and then he set out on his way. Having driven several miles, he realized he’d forgotten his checkbook, which in consideration of the specific nature of his destination he was likely to need, for which reason he was obligated to return home.

“Oh, it’s you,” his wife remarked, looking up from a bowl of dough she was in the process of punching with what appeared to be great vengeance, when he walked into the kitchen still wearing his driving shoes.

“I forgot this,” he said on his way back through, holding up his checkbook and wagging it.

“Oh,” she said. “That.”

Once more, the man set out on his way, but having once more driven several miles, he realized he’d forgotten his wallet, which one needs regardless of the specific nature of one’s destination – for instance, in case one is pulled over by the police who, if one does not have one’s wallet and is therefore “driving without a license,” may throw one in the slammer, where one may be subject to harassment and even physical violence or unwanted romantic advances. For this reason, the man was once more obligated to return home. Passing through the kitchen, he offered no explanation to his red-faced, perspiring, dough-punching wife, but on the return trip he held the wallet aloft, much as he had the checkbook, and wagged it in her direction.

“You’d forget your own head if it wasn’t attached to your body,” she snorted, and gave the dough a wallop.

Now, this man was a patient man if nothing else, but when it came to adding insult to injury, that was simply more than he could abide. Without so much as exchanging his driving shoes for his yard shoes, he stomped through the high grass behind the house to the storage shed for his angle grinder, with which, back in the kitchen, he proceeded to saw off his head in order to subsequently direct toward his wife a dramatic performance of not forgetting it despite the fact that it was plainly no longer attached to his body.

“And now?” she asked.

“And now,” said the man, holding the freshly sawed-off head by the little that had been left of his hair, “I take my leave.”

“Again?” asked his wife.

“Again,” the man confirmed.

Out of respect for the upholstery, he wrapped the head with newspaper from the recycling bin before placing it gently in the passenger seat of the car; then, he was on his way. As far as he knew, he had not forgotten anything else this time around, apart from where he was going and how to get there, but disaster soon ensued all the same: unable to see a thing, he plowed first through a crowd of activists who had gathered on a nearby street corner to protest the rising cost of grain, then straight into a gas station, provoking a powerful detonation in which many people, including the activists and the man himself, were killed.

“All I can say is I hope it was worth it,” his wife said to him at his funeral.

But the man did not say a word.