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ring.
    “Pee Wee, I wish you would tell me what is wrong. We can’t go on like this.” I held my breath again as I awaited his response.
    He stopped chewing and smacking for a moment and gave me a surprised look. There was a large wad of food in the left side of his mouth. He didn’t even bother to swallow it before he spoke again.
    “What the hell are you talkin’ about, woman? Who said somethin’
    was wrong?” he replied, with a shrug. He swallowed the food, and now his face had a slack-jawed appearance.
    “Something is definitely wrong,” I insisted.
    “Not with me!” he yelled, looking even more surprised. “I’m not the one goin’ through the change.” His words felt like a stab.
    “This has nothing to do with menopause! Whether you will admit it or not, you are the one with the problem!” I hollered.
    “Well, if you are so smart, why don’t you tell me what my problem is?”
    “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. That’s what I was hoping you’d tell me. You . . . you’re not the man you used to be,” I wailed.
    The food on his plate was good, but it couldn’t have been that good. He blinked and stuffed another wad of coleslaw into his jaw.
    I was glad he swallowed it before he responded to my last comment.
    “Well, since you brought it up, you ain’t the woman you used to be, neither,” he told me, with a pinched look on his face. “But like GOD AIN’ T BLIND
    27
    old blue-eyed Mr. Frank Sinatra sung in one of his songs, that’s life.
    Don’t nothin’ stay the same forever. What’s your point?”
    He finally lifted one of the napkins and wiped his mouth, releasing another mild belch. Now he looked so calm, it was frightening. I had not seen him look this satisfied since the last time we made love, last year. He yawned and stretched his arms high above his head, letting me know that he was about to end his participa-tion in this tense conversation.
    “I know that nothing stays the same forever, but you’ve changed so much I hardly know you anymore.” I walked over to the large front window and continued to talk, with my back to him. “We used to talk about so many different things. We used to do so many things together. We were so busy, we needed a pie chart to keep up with all our activities. And . . . and now our bedroom seems more like a morgue. We had one of the best marriages in town. If you don’t love me anymore and want to . . . want to move on, just tell me, and I won’t stand in your way.” A few moments passed before I spoke again. “Did you hear what I just said, Pee Wee?”
    He responded with a resonating snore.
    C H A P T E R 6
    I didn’t treat my battered body to the long, hot bath that I had planned to take during my ride home from the motel. I settled for another brief shower instead, like the one I’d taken in the motel with Louis.
    After I had dried myself off, I stood in front of the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door and admired my naked body.
    Even as agitated as I was because of my conversation with Pee Wee, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I liked what I saw in that mirror. I never thought that I would live to see the day that I’d have a waistline that was where it was supposed to be. I was nowhere near Janet Jackson territory in the body department—even when she was going through one of her plump periods—but I no longer had to turn sideways to tell where my back ended and my butt began. I still had some cellulite on my thighs, but according to the tabloids I read every week, so did Goldie Hawn, and she was still one of the most glamorous human beings on the planet. Most of the dimples, lumps, fleshy flaps, and bumps that had once decorated more than 50 percent of my body had disappeared. I could even see my navel now, because all the flab that used to encircle my middle like a tutu was completely gone. I was going to do whatever it took to make sure it never returned.
    Pee Wee didn’t know what a good thing he was losing,