We ran out for Friday fish fry with my mom to one of those typically and perfectly Wisconsin kind of joints. You know the type ... converted house, low ceilings, beer signs on the walls, lots of fried cod and friendly, on-site owners working behind the bar. Where everyone knows your name. Or at least they know your face.
Jim and I hadn't been there in a long time. If I had to guess, it was more than 9 months or so. Maybe a year. We ordered a drink and started looking at the menu. The place was pretty busy, and we were chatting. Ordered drink #2.
At this point, Mrs. Owner (I honestly don't know her name) comes over, looks directly at me and says, "Where's your other half?"
I'm confused. Jim is sitting next to my mom. And yes, we're missing my dad ... but surely she doesn't think Jim and my mom are together and I'm missing my husband?
I start to point at Jim. "He's right there."
"No," she says. "The other half of you. Where is the other half of you?"
I feel the blood rushing to my face. "Oh, THAT," I say.
"She's gone."
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