To A Nunnery

“Je te déteste,” she said. I rubbed at the wrinkles marring my strained and weary countenance and said, “Headache today. No French, 'kay?” She roared with heat like some balmy squall over the Indies, kicking up waves of white sheets, hailing down expensive pens and pencils, tossing eyeglasses violently like some wandering bark in turbulent seas until it crashed upon jagged land; then down came the books, frail walls toppling under duress. I hunkered down, tried as a grizzled sea captain; lowered the main sail and battened down the hatches, for I'd seen these devil winds before. No brubru nor bull's eye surprised and they would end just as quickly as they'd blown in, dissipating back into a warm breeze, swift heading, and calm seas. Soon enough she, with hair a wild mane telling of wind and eyes dewy from rain, spoke again, “We need a break. I need a break, Anthony. I—” I cut her off, “You should have one. Go out. You should chill.” She started to speak, her right hand diddling with fingers on the left. I cut in, rote, “I've got some work to finish, some stuff to edit. We will talk more later, honey.” I turned back to the desk, began to clean the mess and pulled out spare glasses from the drawer's recesses. Rain and wind ceased to exist, up went the rigging and sails— But I could not have heard as She wandered darkly down the hall, halting pensive at the door and choking back tears as she tore the ring from a slender digit of the left hand and breathily whispered in the tongue I fondly loved, “Que sera sera, que sera sera. Je ne t'aime plus, mon amour,” as the ring fell to the floor— And I puzzled at the helm, for then down dropped the breeze. And we did speak only to break the silence of the sea.