“How could you do that to me?" I repeat. I don´t have to itemize. He knows what I speak of.
Eventually N produces three answers, in this order:

1. "Because I am a complete rotter." I silently agree, but it´s a cop-out: I have maggots, therefore I am dead.
2. "I was stressed at work and unhappy and we were always fighting...and you know I was just crazy..."

I cut him off, saying, "You don´t get to be crazy. You did exactly what you chose to do."
Which is true, he did. It is what he has always done. He therefore seems slightly puzzled at the need for further diagnosis, which may explain his third response:

3. "I don´t know."

This, I feel instinctively, is the correct answer. How can I stay angry with him for being what he is? I was, after all, his wife, and I chose him. No coincidences, that´s what Freud said. None. Ever.
I wipe my eyes on my sleeve and walk toward the truck, saying to his general direction, "Fine. At least now I know: You don´t know."
I stop and turn around and fire one more question: a bullet demanding attention in the moment it enters the skin and spreads outward, an important bullet that must be acknowledged.
"What did you feel?"
After a lengthy pause, he answers. "I felt nothing."
And that, I realize too late, was not the whole truth, but was a valid part of the truth.
Oh, and welcome to the Serengeti. That too.”