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You are all women to me; that, as I understand it, is the nature of marriage. You tolerate me with grace, as all women do, more or less, so wear the pink pants for me, if you don’t mind, the pants I’d have all women wear, and all of you please walk up ahead and climb the stairs, but do turn back to look at me with your billion eyes, and make a silhouette of one or two breasts each, and in return I’ll do whatever, whenever you tell me. And lose the shirts, please, if that’s okay. You wanted the vote, I know, you made that clear, you marched for that. And you appear to want to be consulted, not merely informed, on issues that don’t concern you, which puzzles me, but tell me anyway, while you’re in those pants, of course, and I’ll consult you. Anything more complicated than that confuses me. For example, you seem, and by you I mean your plural most delectable selves, you seem to support contradictory viewpoints, when what I’m listening for is a single clear word of unambiguous longing, longing for me. Otherwise I’m paralyzed by doubt. I’ve taken a poll, the only way I know how, by asking you the same questions relentlessly since the day we met. The results, as they say, are in. By a small margin, women agree I’m a reasonable if not an overwhelming candidate for serious coupling, not entirely unattractive, to some degree a provider. And that’s supposed to satisfy me. On balance, if I had my life to live over on that basis, I just, I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t put myself through it. According to the same poll, the countless men I represent approve of me. If my opinion counts for anything.
Original Copyright © February 05, 2007
Revised Copyright © February 04, 2026
When the genie offers me three wishes, I’ll ask for gratitude. Let others squander my leftover wishes to fund their dreams or fix the world any way they like. As the one who cherishes whatever I may have, I’ll want for nothing and be immune to both the greed of others and their good intentions. This tepid bowl of chili won’t need sour cream, chopped red onion, fiery peppers, or shredded cheese once the genie has seasoned not it but me. And neither will I be deficient to myself. Already, darling, you and I own more than most humans have ever owned, and eat better, and savor it less. Even this mundane chili is richly exotic in most places on earth at any time other than ours. It’s we who fail the chili if it’s lacking. Taste it again more thoughtfully. Be the spice. You’re welcome. I may not be the ideal partner or even the ideal chef, but, for each other, if for no one else, we could both be. Of course, the genie will have the last laugh. Between the rubbings of the lamp, she has a thousand years to solve the riddle of every desire. However crafty my wish may seem—to live in pure appreciation—she’ll grant it only technically, as everyone knows, grant but not grant it. She could, for example, punish me for neglecting to protect what I already have. And I would surely suffer without your gratitude for my chili, if you catch my drift. It’s worth a second wish. Already I’m like an astronaut too long from home whose most exotic fantasy is lying beside you in our own bed whenever we’re not. If you felt that way about me, too, my first two wishes would do the work of three.
Very Short Novels 
This is a close relative of a Very Short Novel titled Short for Family from 20 years ago. The revisions…