What about you? Asked the other guy. The guy with the fruit in hand and fabric around his neck.

What about me?

You’re a monkey too. Wouldn’t you make a horrible spouse?

His face contorted as he played with the ring on his left hand. The ring we had bought together. The ring that dozens of guests actually crushed other people ahead of them to look at.

The ring that had symbolically brought us together. Not to mention physically. We had to spend all those hours with one another. The bartering. The negotiating.

And now this. I had to answer him or perhaps expect him to slowly but surely lose all interest in keeping our marital dance from floating into outer space.

Monkeys don’t know anything about being married.

I suggested chewing off a flea he’d been worried about. He said that his armpit was killing him but felt too self conscious to go to the doctor.

When I restated my offer, his eyes glazed into something akin to a tear.