I am the wife of some famous figure, Cole Porter, I think. I've spent my days waiting for his return from some event of some kind. Perhaps this is simply a transfer of the first bits of The Odyssey (which appeared on the SciFi Channel just before I retired for the night) and I am Penelope. The two storylines have become muddled. In any event, I trust my husband, which many find unusual -- they may even think I'm naive.

I spend day after day busying myself with keeping our home ready for his return, even though I do not know for certain that he will ever return. At a deeper level there is a slow fire of rage burning at how things are turning out, and why I must be expected to exhibit such patience and fidelity.

The fidelity is not really a problem; there is no one I would rather be with, and I do not find any of those who vie for my attentions the least bit interesting or appealing. In fact, they repulse.

It is patience that is my failing, and I am more than a few times tempted to blasphemous thoughts and actions as the time takes its toll and my children grow older and older, with no memory of their father worth speaking of.