Her husband was a self-made man,

an up-and-comer of his own devising,

one of those who reads things

so he’ll know exactly what to say.

One night

at Porsche Club

he took a sip of wine

—Is that what they call it? A sip?—

and discoursed on its qualities,

then got up and went to pet his car

—Is that what they call Porches? Cars?—

or perhaps to brush an insect from its windshield.

While he was gone,

she took his glass and held it to her lips

to see

how it was

different

from her wine

which at the very least was from a different bottle

or perhaps

to see

if she could smell and taste what he had

and yes, she thought,

it is definitely different.

He returned,

said, “Here,

let me taste yours”,

and

—You know where this is going, don’t you.—

took his own wine

from her hand,

sniffed

—They don’t have another word for sniffed, do they?—

and sipped

and described it as completely different

from the one he’d tasted first,

discoursing at some length on just exactly how.

—I mean,

okay,

it had been in the open air

awhile

and things do change

when they’re

exposed,

but still…—

Some years after that she left him

and some years after that

—It was after decades, to be honest,

decades of cohabitation.—

she up and married me.

—I hate to humbly brag

but I will always gladly tell you

exactly

what it is I do not know.—

She calls me

her “little lifelong learner”,

—As Bucky Fuller said, “You can’t learn less.”—

calls me

“ignorant

in the best of all possible ways”.