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30 THE MINNESOTA REVIEW HUNT HAWKINS THE COMPLAINT OF A HOUSEHUSBAND Your colleagues ignore me. When I hysterically insist on talking, they turn to you. All my thoughts have suddenly become opinions. Why have I hung my Ph.D. in the bathroom? My days just simply disappear. I can't even remember this morning except for "Search for Tomorrow." Alone with the dog, I eagerly await your return at dusk, as if you were reality itself, only to find your life is names I barely know. You demand sympathy because they look down on you for being a woman. And my sympathy has increased, along with my dependence. The stairs grow dustballs the way a garden makes cabbages. I roam from room to room, looking for things to pick up, and scream at the milk carton you left on the counter. When I say I've developed "dishpan penis," you forget to laugh. My mother asks who sleeps on top. We are forging ahead toward a new relationship, but the road is dense. Twenty minutes before the guests arrive, I nervously scrub the toilet bowl. ...

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