Is it possible for this cow to find a tough, masculine, take-charge kind of bull who is willing to service her for life, and maybe even take out the trash once in a while?

I understand that a cow has a responsibility as well. The cow needs to keep things interesting, not so much for the bull, but for herself. She needs to be happy being a cow, with her own friends and her own interests. She can’t just sit around chewing her cud, waiting for the bull to make her feel worthy. And, she needs to keep reinventing herself, so the bull doesn't think of her as the old cow.

Speaking as a new cow, who has also been an old cow, I'm wagering on the side of evolution, and hoping to find that one enlightened bull who knows when to be a man, when to be a bull and when to give up searching for new cows.
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This was our second trip to Tuscany. It was October, during harvest. The ‘97 Chiantis were ready and I remember how the wine warmed my throat and numbed my senses. It should have been romantic.

We were in Florence on our last day and eager to try one more restaurant. We picked one out of our dog eared travel guide, though we had traveled enough to know better. But, we weary.

It was raining as we tried to find our way to the little trattoria. The rain flooded the stone streets making the slippery trek seem like creek crossing. We were the first to arrive at “Cibreo.” It was noon and only Americans are hungry at noon. We waited in the rain for the doors to open. We were too American or too polite, so as the locals started arriving, we gradually ceded our position until we were the last in line. When the doors finally opened, we were the last to be seated at a tiny table next to the kitchen. We ordered table wine and made sarcastic remarks about the loud Americans across the room. But, we remained polite to the waiter. Polite to each other.

I ordered some sort of pollo. I’m usually adventurous with food. Earlier in our trip I had joked that I had eaten all of Beatrix Potter’s creatures. I had sampled rabbit, wild boar, pigeon, eel, frog legs among other edibles. And, I had enjoyed them all. So, chicken hardly seemed the risky choice. But, when the waiter brought my food, I was shocked by what I saw. Amid a smattering of chives and lemon garnish, was an entire chicken head, complete with eyes, comb and bits of hair. The stench indicated that it was in a late stage of decomposition. It was a carcass, after all. And, I wasn’t going to eat it.

We laughed together for the first time in months as we contemplated whether this was some kind of joke that the chef enjoyed playing on naive tourists. Tourists that we were, we snapped some photos of the plate to archive our amusement.

This was the last photo we took in Italy. There were no pictures of us together. We never thought to ask fellow tourists to take our picture. Instead, we commemorated our journey with this photo of a lone, dead chicken head, on a white plate. It was very William Carlos Williams in its objectivism...”so much depends on a dead chicken head on a white plate...”

So much depends on firsts and lasts. Beginnings and endings. It was our last meal on our last day in Italy. And, it was the beginning of the end of our marriage.
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If you were to be the one to lovingly wrap my head, and tie my feet secure...My ghost could be contained.

Instead, it will be the work of strangers, who care only for sterilization, sanitation, delayed putrefaction.There are more creative options.

I remember the Bone House in Hallstat, where the bones of the dead were neatly stacked, each one thoughtfully, bleached, painted and dated. I loved the artistry of it.

I can see the chic of it now, my skull propped on your dresser, you smiling as you put your socks away, finding the humor in my barren face, with no skin or hair to hide behind.

As you stare into the dark holes that were once my eyes, you might begin to pine for the fortune lost to hair dye and makeup, just to see it all decay away so quickly.

That would be your way, I think. To grieve only for the tangible. To mourn for the house that becomes our sarcophagus.

Hold on to my bones. They are solid. They are long lasting.
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I understood how Life Partner felt, because every man who has cheated on me, and there have been a few, did so with someone less physically attractive than me. When I say, less attractive, I can give quantifiable proof, i.e. at least 50 more pounds, crooked teeth, crooked noses, skin conditions. Yet, I continue to monitor the scale and keep Sephora in the black, because I'm stuck on the notion that my success or failure in a relationship has everything to do with how I look. Life Partner suffers from the same misconception, except she's smarter than me, because she has a rule about never dating a man better looking than she is. I have the oppostie rule and it keeps backfiring on me.

Today, Life Partner had an ephiphany that scared us both to death. She said, "I just came to the realization that maybe it's not about looks."

I was stunned. Her statement challenged my entire belief system. All I could do was stare at her while I processed the truth of what she said. And, I thought, "Oh my God, we're screwed."
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