His secret wife follows him wherever he goes, sidewalk to sidewalk, bus stop to storefront. Secret wife is always a step behind and a step to the left as he does his jerky little dance through the city. He is searching for heroes and lovers, lives and ideals, fragments and frenzies, and his secret wife keeps pace.

Perhaps she does not receive enough attention, or perhaps she is simply too familiar with him and his flaws; for secret wife wants a divorce. She would like to fall out of step, to slow down and turn down some side street behind him, to tug at the sleeve of a policeman and beg for salvation, but secret wives are made to be neither seen nor heard.

(The greatest fear of a secret wife is the nagging suspicion that she simply does not exist without her overt husband. Q: In which lobe is she located?)

So the secret wife clasps her hands together, holds her head up or hangs it down, as she follows her husband on concrete and asphalt, matching him step for step. He has found some things, and has yet to find others. Unless she taps him on the shoulder, he will never find her at all.