All our fathers were evil men. Our mothers

All our fathers were evil men. Our mothers tell us so in bouts of insurmountable, tear-filled rage. Usually I freeze when I hear the clattering of dishes, but it makes me listen.

Today, though, there is nothing to listen to. Just the smashing of dishes.

Thank goodness I bought that new broom and dustpan yesterday. "I must be psychic or something," I thought smugly, barely ducking in time as a salad plate whizzed past my head.

"Thanks I already ate. Wait, is that fresh mozzarella?" I finished sweeping up the mess first. Then I grabbed the plate & had a little antipasto. "Mangia, mangia!" The dish tosser

yelled and said, "That was not fresh mozzarella. That was sperm whale cheek marinated in fermented gorilla milk." What did I do? I'll tell you what I did.

I hit back. I told him what was really on his plate. You think that's dumplings and blood sausage? I watched his quizzical expression morph to recognition, denial, and finally

disgust. "But," he admitted. "It tastes so...good." He swallowed. "I want more." That was the moment, I realize now, that our contentious friendship took a turn for the worse. "You

never could pick a decent wine." I said. He looked at his shoes again but I knew he was thinking about her. "Feeling sorry for yourself won't do any good." I said and then he

looked at me with his puppy eyes. "I know, but I just can stop it unless I stop breathing." he whispered. And with that he stabbed his self with an old rusty knife. The wine bottle

fell to the floor and broke into hundreds of tiny pieces. I saw him thinking of her during his last moments. I held his hand. It was over. Was it the wine or the blood?