when things fall apart

let's just be friends
your wife
tells you one night
as she makes
you a peanut butter
sandwich, setting
it on the table
with a glass of milk
and a pickle.
what? you say, taking
a bite of your
sandwich. do we have
any chips? she reaches
on top of the refrigerator,
sets the bag
of chips on the table.
so, she says, standing
there with her hands on
her aproned hips,
weary from fixing dinner.
let's just be friends
from now on, okay?
the neighbors across
the street are doing
it. who, you say.
jim and mary? yes,
she says. and it's working
out just great.
you sleep in one
room, I can sleep
in the other. but we
need to have rules.
no bringing dates home
unless one of us is
out of town.
how long have you felt
this way, you ask,
taking a long sip of
milk. god I love cold
milk you say, wiping
your lips with your sleeve.
maybe ten years, she says,
maybe longer.
so, that's it then, you
say. we're sort of over
but we're not over?
yes. she says, we can
pretend to be married,
but you can keep working
and paying the bills
while I do what I do.
which is what? you
say, finishing off
the pickle.