In his former life, his wife

used to tell him that he didn’t know her

at all. He knew enough to

know that was a line she used regularly

when she wanted to hurt him

a little, usually during an argument, but

sometimes it came out of the

blue. In those times, he didn’t know if it

were her way of asking for

understanding, making a declarative state-

ment of her desire ever and

always to be thought of as unique and not

ordinary as she was often

given to say or just making a terse statement

of judgment also intended,

in those, out-of-the-blue cases, to hurt him a

little more deeply. He knew she was

an introvert and he was an extrovert, so, ob-

viously, she was onto

something; but not at all? Actually, he had

a hunch he knew her better

than she ever wanted him to and it was that,

which she protested. How

much do we ever know another, the cliché

asks. He and his sister are

genetically about 99% the same. They are

extroverts and when he

thinks about it, he, grudgingly, concedes that

they are a lot alike, but

still, he wonders how much he knows her in

the inner folds of her thoughts,

feelings, fears, hopes, habits, habits leaning

toward addictions but always

just stopping short and then he wonders about

himself and then he just wonders.