She Can Prove It
LOYD ROHENFIELD began free-lance writing while working far an oil company in Tulsa. He is now living in Mexico City. “Here,”he tells us, “I only write.”His light verse has appeared several times in these, pages.
by LOYD ROSENFIELD
MY WIFE set the plate of half a dozen large purple fruit-filled breakfast rolls in front of me, then happily started munching on hot buttered toast covered with my favorite apple jelly.
“I don’t get any toast?” I asked plaintively.
“You like those,” she said, pointing to the breakfast rolls, which looked as if they shouldn’t have been taken out of the sack before noon.
“I do?” I answered, trying to remember what I had done, said, or eaten that could have made my wife thoughtfully purchase these monstrosities.
“Yes,” she answered happily. “Last summer at the Finchleys’ weekend they had these for breakfast and I saw you eat one.”
Faced with such evidence, there was nothing I could do but close my eyes and cram down three of the things. I felt confident of receiving the other three the next morning, toasted.
This same thoughtful streak was demonstrated anew only last week when I came home, happy from an easy day at the office, only to find six new articles of clothing spread out on my bed.
After close examination I identified them tentatively as sport shirts, mainly because they seemed to have sleeves but no legs. They had more color than a wide-screen Technicolor sunset and were entered by means of a zipper running from left shoulder to stomach to right shoulder, like a king-size dickey.
My wife came into the room wearing a happy smile and her new backless summer dress. “ You are happy,” I said hopefully, “because you found some bargains in Christmas presents for your male cousins back in West Virginia.”
“Wrong,” she replied, “although it is very unselfish of you to say so. Zammerbach’s just got these in today. I knew they were the kind you like, so I grabbed six. Only $12.50 each.”
Smiling bravely, I said, “Give me just one little clue as to why you’re so sure I like them.”
“Surely you remember the art gallery in Kansas City,” she said.
“Lovely building,” I commented, “but what . . .”
“The modern abstract painting you said would make a good pattern for one of those summer sport shirts?”
“Of course. How dull of me to forget. I don’t, recall the painting having a two-directional zipper, though.”
“Silly,” she laughed. “Now hurry and slip into one of your new shirts and we’ll drive out to that fried chicken place you like so well for dinner.”
“You mean The Happy Hen, where I broke one of my front teeth on the batter?” I asked, slipping into one of my new shirts.
She nodded yes, and while I tried to work the zipper I also tried to figure out what could possibly have made her think I liked The Happy Hen.