Henry

“Marjorie, would you bring in my messages, please? I’ll also take my coffee now, thank you.”

Another day. Fifteen years to bring this company from the spare bedroom of our first apartment to the top floor of a Manhattan highrise. Fifteen years of deals, mergers and acquisitions to make this one of the most profitable companies our shareholders have in their portfolios. Damn, I’m tired. The days are no longer exciting; I haven’t woken up excited about going to the office in many years. By now, it’s just an excuse to get out of the house and away from Madeline and her incessant chatter. Twenty-five years of marriage and she still hasn’t run out of things to say. “Henry, are we going to the de Kampfs’ for dinner? Henry, the Wallermans are expecting us to sit at their table for the Whitney benefit, what should I tell them? Henry, did you call our son? You know it’s his birthday today, don’t you Henry? Henry, did you know that?” For the record, yes Madeline. I called him from the office, told him that if he values his sanity, to never get married. As for the rest, they’re your friends and you’ll answer yes anyway. Why go through the rigmarole of checking with me? If it were really my decision, not that I’m deluding myself that this is the case, but I’d say that de Kampf is an ass, Wallerman cheats at golf and I’d prefer not to spend my time with such people. I’d rather be home, reading.

“Thank you Marjorie. Please hold my calls; I’ll be out for most of the afternoon.”

If Madeline calls, she’ll think I’m at the club. This is partly true. It is a club, of sorts. I had to join, pay membership dues. Who wants sit around with a bunch of cranky old men when you can receive a lovely massage from a girl who doesn’t speak? Hell, it’s worth spending the four hundred dollars just for her silence.