Everyday Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday the apple of my eye, the sunshine of my days, the moonlight of my nights, the love of my life, my darling wife cooks me lunch. Imagine, a plate of spaghetti. The yellow strands of flour, ten, eleven, twelve inches in length, coiled, twisted, on a white place. Imagine a bright red marinara sauce, a little chunky, made with the freshest and ripest of tomatoes, with just a hint of garlic and cloves and capers and olives. Imagine the green of chopped rosemary on this yellow spaghetti with the bright red marinara sauce. Now add some white grated parmesan and a not too finely ground black pepper. Imagine, this confluence of yellow and red and green and white and black. This is my better half’s opinion of the lunch she cooks me everyday. The last time I voiced my opinion of the lunch she cooks me everyday I spent an uncomfortable night tossing and turning on our couch after an hour of listening to every mistake I had made since the joyous day that poodle-faced priest had joined us together in holy matrimony.