She always liked Elvis more than me. She collected his albums and played the grooves off them and hummed and sang along to unseen melodies. She had posters on the walls, a fan magazine subscription, and a huge Elvis on a velvet painting mounted over the headboard of our bed.
She had the king on tee-shirts, dish towels, coffee mugs, and toilet paper. An Elvis logo nightgown clung to her slender body the night we were married.
I should have seen it coming, but soon after that, following sex, she sang, “A hunka hunka burned-out love.” I knew it was over.