"I'm sorry honey, I didn't mean to wake you."

She doesn't say anything. She looks at me with those glorious morning eyes. The ones that have slept within two feet of mine over the last 27 years. Her eyes close and she drifts back to sleep. I kiss her softly on the lips. She slightly moans. The moan means, I love you too, don't wake me. After 27 years, you learn to understand the moans and grunts of your wife. Some people find it irritating, they don't know the joys of marriage.

I drive to the factory to punch in and start my shift. At 5:30 in the morning it's hard to get my mind functioning. The monotonous work on the assembly line has made many men go nuts. The only thing I think about until my first break is the slight drool excreting from my wife's mouth this morning. Her face is right in front of me as I'm careful not to burn myself from my soldering iron.

The catering truck makes its way into the parking lot. The horn gives me a Pavlov's dog reaction. Saliva rushes to my mouth. I order a breakfast burrito as the rest of the crew greets me.

"Good to see you back Bill."

"Yeah, great to have you back."

"Thanks guys," I reply.

"I'm really sorry to hear about your wife Bill, are you dealing with it OK?"

"What, yeah, of course," I reply.

It's hard to remember my wife's dead. It's hard to remember my wife was ill for so long especially when she continues to watch me, sleep by me, and give me those looks of love.

"She was a good woman Bill, I always loved the times when she brought us all cookies," Kasey says.

"Yeah Bill, you were lucky to have her you stubborn bastard….I mean, I really liked her, are you OK?" Steve says.

"Thanks guys, I'm OK. Hey, how about that winning streak the Oakland A's had," I reply. I want to change the subject.

I haven't cried since my wife died. It's been four weeks and I haven't shed a tear. Sometimes I feel like a freak. Sometimes she sits in the chair across the room, reading a trashy romance novel or working on the NY Times crossword puzzle. Sometimes she looks at me and gives me the MMmmm sound. That means she's happy and she loves me.

The doctor told me her inability to speak was psychosomatic, it was a psychological reaction that occurs at the final stages of her disease. I didn't want explanations of why things were happening to my wife, I wanted solutions on how to make them stop.

"Johnson, get in here," my boss yells from his office. Cigar dangling from his mouth. His gut peering from between his pants and his not-so-tucked in shirt.

"Hey boss," I say as I enter his office.

"Sit down."

I sit as he finishes writing something on a piece of paper.

"Bill, it's good to have you back. Man, we've needed you badly these last few weeks. Everything's ok, right? I mean, you're not going to need more time off are you?"

"No, I'm fine," I reply.

"Good.  I'm real sorry to hear about your wife. She was a good woman."

"Thanks."

"You know I've experienced your pain before. When I was younger, Charles died. I had that dog for seven years before he developed cancer. I still shed a tear for him once in a while. The vet told me to put him to sleep and out of his misery. I said, NO WAY. He didn't even consider my misery. Watching Charles die like that. It can scar you for life. But you need to move forward. You can't let the past keep you down. You know what I'm saying Bill?"

"Yes."

"Oh, the union requires that you see a therapist for two sessions. I need you to sign this and go see the therapist the company provides. I'd like to get these union guys off of my back, so if you can do the first session tonight that would be a load off of my mind. Can you do it tonight?"

"Sure," I say. I try to remember what time my wife thinks I'm coming home, then I remember I don't have a wife.

"Good, here's the address. Well, get back to work, you’ve got to earn your pay on my shift. And hang in there old man."

Afternoons at the shop are always the longest part of the day. I check the clock every five minutes between 12:30 and 2pm.

At 2pm I use the payphone in the parking lot to call my wife and let her know I won’t be home until after the appointment with the therapist. I dial the numbers and remember my wife probably won't get the message. I leave the message anyway. Out of routine.

There's an empty feeling in my soul. I'm numb. I go to K-Mart to buy some oil for my car. I get sidetracked into the woman's section.

I look at the dresses. My wife always wore dark colors. Black, Blue, dark red. I look at blouses that would probably fit her. I wander into the underwear section. I take one of the bras off of the rack. It's a B-cup. It would fit my wife. I put the fabric to my cheek and absorb the scent. A mom pulls her two young kids out of the women's section, giving me a dirty look in the process.

"Can I help you?" a young female clerk asks.

"No, just looking."

She walks away in a huff.

I close my eyes and touch the fabric to my forehead.

I feel someone grip my arm. The hand is too masculine and thick to be my wife's.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

I start to leave.

"Sir, are you going to purchase that bra?"

The bra is still against my face.

"No, I'm sorry, I'm just waiting for my wife."

Reality hits me. She's not here. She's never going to be here.

"I'd like you to wait outside for her sir," and the security guard leads me out the door. People look at me as we leave the store. I hate people looking at me.

It's only 2:30 and my appointment isn't until 5. I sit on a bench in the shopping center. I gaze at all the beautiful women. I don't want to have sex with any of them. I don't want to know any of them. Maybe I've turned gay.

A short woman walks her dog. A Great Dane. The vision is humorous as the dog is almost as tall as she is.

My wife wanted a dog. I put my foot down right away. No Dogs. I can’t stand dogs. I can’t stand seeing people with their plastic little poop bags walking around town. Steaming dog poop in their hands. I shovel enough crap at work I don’t want to do it when I come home at night.

I like cats. Easier to maintain. No walks, no biting other people and getting sued. Just licking their paws and purring.

She didn’t like cats. So we agreed no pets.

Free time is excruciating. I used to pick up pills or ice cream or adult diapers for my wife during the afternoon. Now I sit and wait to talk to some hack therapist about my dead wife.

An SUV sits idle at a stoplight. I want to wrap my mouth around that tail pipe for some relief. I want to burn the inside of my lips to forget about my loss.

There's no way I'm going to a therapist. I don't need to talk about my feelings.

I buy a can of beer and some sunflower seeds at 7-11. I sit in my car and drink and listen to the ballgame. A's are up 3-2 in the 8^th.

Next to 7-11 is a pet store. My wife looks in its window. I follow her into the store. The smell of birdseed and dogs fills the room. My wife stands over a puppy. The puppy licks her hand. She looks at me with pleading eyes.

"Good afternoon sir," the store clerk says.

She points at the Great Dane puppy. My wife is so beautiful. My heart skips a beat like the first day I met her. I glance down to her painted toenails. She rubs the bottom of her right foot over the top of her left foot. She always rubs her feet together when she’s excited.

I pull out my credit card and purchase the little guy.

The life expectancy of a Great Dane is 10 years.

Heartbreak is imminent.