Shelly takes one more deep breath. “I cheated on him,” she says. This pleases the audience enormously. They pump their fists and holler. Shelly’s thick lips twitch. She looks down at her shoes until the shouting stops.
She’s been with two guys. They’re romantic. Joe’s not romantic.
“Can I tell you something, Shelly?” Maury asks. He’s looking at her with such eager empathy that you know it’s all bullshit. What if I really had been on his show, had to face his false music? I’m lucky to just sit and watch.
“Shelly,” he says, “I don’t care what Joe says or what he does. It’s not your fault.”
“Yeah,” I say to Oliver. “It’s not my fault.” This would be his cue to do something cute like put a paw on my knee, but he just curls his tail tighter around his body and continues to sleep.
Would life be better if I were a Shelly and I had a Joe? There would at least be someone. Granted, that someone would be a shlump who was apparently boffing half the population of the Eastern Seaboard, but we all make sacrifices.
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