have you seen my husband

have you seen
my husband, the woman says,
running into me at the park.
she doesn't use
his name, which to me indicates
he's in deep water,
hot water,
a swirling typhoon of troubled
water.
rip tide.
nope, I say.
you haven't seen him?
No.
she looks into my eyes, squinting,
trying to figure
out if i'm lying
or telling the truth,
taking the man's side, as most
men would.
are you sure, she asks again.
and like Peter, the apostle,
I say no for a third time.