My wife asked me this morning br if I'd ever cheated on her. br My ex-wife called this afternoon br & asked me the same thing. br What's going on? br That new Italian movie br the art film crowd adores, br the characters hysterical, nearly br operatic, their marriages dead br or dying. I imagine all those couples br sipping capuccino after the movie, br nibbling biscotti, that close br to confessing their own infidelities. br I love my wife. I don't whine br about my latest chore, cleaning br the litter box four or five times br a day. I can imagine one br of those histrionic Italian husbands br fuming, yearning for his mistress br as he kneels by the reeking box, br scooping cat feces & urinous clots br of litter into a plastic bag. br The second I'm done, our old cat br comes running. Otherwise, br he limps from room to room, moaning br like the ghost of some animal br whose bladder burst. br I love that old cat. Most nights br he snuggles under the comforter, br buzzing between me & my wife like a br space heater I need to repair.