“You’ve got to forget her,” my friends said. “You’re better off without her. Put it behind you.” The platitudes they offered to soothe my broken heart.

After several years of happiness I began to see the subtle little signs, the slight indifference, her mental wandering when I was speaking. Then came the weight-loss, the change of style in hair and clothes, the makeover; wrong numbers late at night.

So my attractive wife packed her new clothes in her new luggage and departed while I was working. The note was not a great surprise, for I had, one night, listened on the extension, and learned where they would rendezvous. A few dollars to the motel clerk, a microphone beside the bed, and they had no secrets from me.

Now, when my friends offer sympathies I smile gamely. And I will forget. Out of sight, out of mind. And my wife and her friend are out of sight. Only my new friend, Amy, the motel clerk, and I know where. Amy loves her new clothes and luggage.

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