A year ago my wife moved out of our apartment. If she'd found a lover or something, believe me, I would've killed them both, but that didn't seem the case. Her exact words were "You've got things all wrong. What a fool you are." I didn't understand what she meant, so one time I went to her new apartment and sort of forced my way in and tried to get a good explanation.
"Look at you," she said. "You drive that big truck around for ten hours a day, then you come home moaning and groaning, you don't even try to talk to me, just plop down in your lounge chair, drink a quart of beer, eat a bowl and a half of rice, chomp on your pickled vegetables, and fart and burp, and when we make love it's just flup flup flup about five times and then it's over, and you call yourself a man? Don't you see how ridiculous you are? You've got things all wrong."
I asked her what if I tried to do something about the farts and the flup flup, but it was no go. And I still didn't understand what it was I had all wrong.
- Ryu Murakami, It's Been Just a Year and a Half Now Since I Went With My Boss To That Bar, from the Winter 2004 Zoetrope All-Story.