The priest slowly nods his head, gestures for me to kneel and say my piece.

***

�Well�Here�s to us,� Suzie says, winking at me through an enormous wine glass that distorts her face so badly, she looks like a medieval gargoyle before she downs the last few drops.

�Yeah, to us,� I mumble, looking at the outrageous check, wondering who �us� is�me and Suzie or Joan and I. Then again, I�ve been the mouse in their duplicitous game for so long, maybe I�m the one with the identity crisis.

I can never be sure if it�s my wife Suzie or her identical twin Joan that I�m talking to or having sex with, but after twenty-five years of this bullshit, it doesn�t matter anymore. To be honest, I don�t think they know themselves who the hell they are.

Nor does it matter whom I�m dining out with tonight, our silver anniversary. I�ve never liked this bogus French restaurant to begin with�I�m pretty sure French Muzak does not include Kenny G�and I hate and loathe both sisters equally, so as far as I�m concerned, it�s money down the drain regardless.

I don�t have much to celebrate, either. Just yesterday one of my colleagues told me he thought he saw my wife with the boss�s brother coming out of the downtown movie theater, holding hands, eyes sparkling, pecking kisses on blushing cheeks. It isn�t the first time this type of rumor goes around the office. I wish I could work from the premise that this simply isn�t true, that my wife and I have been in love and faithful to each other since buffalo roamed the prairie so I can reject his statement as scurrilous slander, but I work from a foundation of quicksand, which leaves me little alternative but to eat everybody�s shit. There has been too much confusion, too much ambiguity during the past two and a half decades; too many instances where a straight question by yours truly was not met with a candid answer but instead produced a mysterious Mona Lisa smile and the kind of vague, hollow-sounding answer a politician would give, leaving me feeling like a complete asshole�a pity, really, because Suzie is still very good looking and very fit at fifty-one.

�Was the meal to your satisfaction?� the maitre d� wants to know when we get up from our table. It�s not a French accent�more like Minnesota.

�Oh, absolutely delicious,� I lie, wanting desperately to flee this sordid faux bistro Fran�aise.

It�s dark by the time we get home, and I decide to leave the car in the driveway tonight. Even though it�s not even nine o�clock yet, the entire neighborhood seems deserted. The only light comes from an anemic half moon that only occasionally peeks through the clouds. A dog barks somewhere in the distance.

Suzie walks ahead, and I follow her onto the porch. While she faces the front door, impatiently tapping a foot while waiting for me to open it, I rummage through a few potted evergreens, and find what I�m looking for. It�s a little grimy, but it feels good and solid.

Praying it won�t bounce off a rib, I plunge the knife in, right below the left shoulder blade, angling downward and a little to the left, hoping the serrated edge will cleave her cheating heart in two. In the stillness of the night, the tearing of skin sounds obscenely muffled, inconsequential, like ripping a sheet from a thick roll of paper tissue.

I�m lucky: the blade meets no resistance whatsoever, and I�m sure that by the time all twelve inches are in, the tip comes out on the other side. A stream of hot blood squirts from the wound, catching me straight in the face. I had no idea I�d be severing something important, otherwise I would�ve stood away. Fortunately I�m wearing my glasses: I�d hate to get her blood in my eyes�no telling how that�ll sting. While I wipe my glasses with the back of my hand, there�s another squirt, Suzie slumps forward, and I nearly drop her. With all my might I hold her upright, fumble for the keys in my pocket, find them, and stick them between my teeth. After pulling the knife out, I manage to pick Suzie up, cradle her in my arms, thinking I�d better be careful with all that blood�don�t want to bleed all over the hardwood floor; it might get slippery and God forbid I�ll break a leg or an arm when I step in it and my feet slide out from under me. I bend my head toward my left hand, carefully grab the keys from my mouth, and aim for the lock. Either my hand or the lock must be equipped with laser guidance tonight, for I hit bull�s eye on the first try. I kick the door open, whisper, �Here comes the fuckin� bride,� and maneuver sideways across the threshold. I turn around but Suzie�s head must not have cleared the entrance yet; with a dull thud it collides with the door frame. I hope it knocked her teeth out.

I wildly grope around for the switch, can�t find it, but somehow the lights come on, anyway, and through blood splattered glasses I stare at the gathering of at least fifty of Suzie�s relatives and friends, all dressed up, poised to party, wearing silly hats, exploding into a kaleidoscope of sounds and color that blur into a scene my brain refuses to process: screeching plastic trumpets, waving pom pons, red and yellow and blue serpentine zigzagging through the room as if there�s an electric storm raging, and everybody hollering, �SURPRISE!�

But then realization sets in and an ear shattering silence descents upon the tableau of paper streamers and balloons and frozen party-goers, and the only sounds left are fat drops of blood splattering onto the floor. Through the still raging blizzard of confetti whipped up by the fast-spinning ceiling fan I can see the eyes of Suzie�s evil twin sister  Joan bulge as she says in a harsh tone of voice, �My God! What have you done to Joan?� and then she lets go of a rip-roaring, bloodcurdling scream of horror.

***

��for He hath said, 'No, I will not leave, no, nor forsake thee.� Amen.�

The heavy steel door bangs open. The fat guard, the nastiest, the most cynical of all, enters my cell, brightly polished, patent leather shoes creaking. He wears a huge gun, grabs a set of handcuffs from his collection of law enforcement paraphernalia dangling from his belt, winks at me, and announces, �Time.� A colleague, out of sight in the hallway, calls out a military style warning, �Attention! Dead man walkin�!�