My husband believed that I had treated him monstrously. This belief of his could not be shaken: his whole world depended on it. It was his story and lately I have come to hate stories. If someone were to ask me what disaster had befallen my life, I might ask them if they wanted the story or the truth.
In the meantime I am listening to a story
about a salesman and somebody’s daughter
the story goes that the salesman learned his lesson
and now he lives in the country like he oughta
I laugh when someone tells a joke
but I always keep my mind on you
or am I just a fool to keep believing
that the map which you gave me was true?