By Roberta Allen

At the party, I watched the bald ethnobotanist, who never got over losing his beautiful, sweet, kind, charming, funny, wonderful, perfect wife to lung cancer, dive nude into the pool where, at least for several minutes while doing a masterful crawl, he could not make snide or sarcastic remarks which, if you were female, were all you ever heard; but in his favor, I can say that he took great care of his body—working out in the gym, I was told, as well as skiing—which is why he actually looked sexy, making me forget, for the moment or two that I was in heat, his violence when he swung me around on the dance floor, twisting, shoving, pulling me this way and that, hurting me to relieve his pain.