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As soon as got to the car, he checked off Communicate, Listen, Compliment, and Make Her Feel Valued.
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“But a neshamah is different than a star. It never dies out. It goes right near Hashem — and there it’s a sun.”
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“Everything’s okay, honey. It’s just that your husband was brought in. He was in a car that spun out of control.”
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They felt foreign in his hands, these cool metal symbols of the luxury he’d spent so long trying to escape
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“I think we’re going to tell him we’re ending it, not her. Then his image is intact, his self-respect is where it should be. He’ll get over it quickly, I’ll have a date set up for him by this Motzaei Shabbos.”
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This was all so patently wrong, but I’ve always been lousy at saying no gracefully.
