Tough Day for the Army by John Warner Page B

understood that pound for pound, monkeys are many times stronger than human beings, but as he shuffled beside me, in my hand, he felt weightless, like with a single movement I could spin like a discus thrower and hurl him far, far away. “What’s the good news?” I said.
    â€œThe good news is that you are about to be a witness to her own heartbreak as she is about to be rejected by the one she chose over you.”
    â€œHow do you know this?”
    â€œI know it because I know it, and I know this also: that when you see Constance having her heart broken you will know yourself whether or not you really did love her.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou’ll see,” he said, letting go of my hand and pointing at a restaurant window across the street. Constance was there visible through the window, sitting alone at a table for two like she was on display. She wore the blue dress. A single candle enclosed in glass flickered from the middle of the table. There was a bottle of wine with two glasses, one empty, hers half-full. My heart leapt into my throat and merged with the rising bile. This felt like love to me. Was this what the monkey was talking about?
    The monkey skittered toward the restaurant door. Constance peered out the window and looked right at me and smiled. She raised her hand and waved her fingers, but I could see her eyes were tracking something other than me.
    As the monkey approached the door, the hostess swung it open and the monkey skipped through, disappearing briefly before clambering up onto the chair across from Constance and then all the way to the tabletop. Constance offered her cheek, and the monkey pecked at her with his lips. A waiter appeared and poured wine into the empty glass. The monkey gripped it in both hands and took an overlong swallow. Constance beamed at him. I’d never seen her look so beautiful.
    The monkey squatted, perched on his edge of the table, and did almost all the talking, whatever he was saying briefly punctuated by single words from Constance. Even from a distance I could see her grow flushed and agitated, her bottom lifting off the chair as she stood to protest the monkey’s message. The news was clearly not good, and she wasn’t having it. I’d never seen her so worked up, but after a few final words from the monkey she slumped backwards, grabbing the wineglass and draining the last of it before reaching for the bottle and refilling her glass to the top. The monkey moved to her side of the table and touched his hand briefly to her cheek, wiping away what I imagined was a tear. He flipped a trio of twenties onto the table before hopping back down, and out the restaurant door, recrossing the street toward me. Constance stood and pressed her face and hands to the window, watching the monkey retreat. She pounded against the glass and shouted, “Come back! Wait! Come back!” until a waiter pulled her away. The monkey never turned around, even when he arrived at my side. My fists clenched and pulsed.
    â€œI ought to kill you,” I said.
    â€œWhy?”
    Why, indeed? Why for the second time in a few hours was I thinking about how I might kill this monkey, how I could quite possibly grab one arm and one leg and pull as hard as I could, rending him into pieces? “You took her from me.”
    â€œIs that really why?”
    â€œYes.”
    The monkey sighed and shook his head sadly. “Then you never loved her either, my friend. That’s not love; that’s possession. If you loved her, you would want to kill me because I’ve just broken her heart and you would not be able to bear that.” The monkey jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Constance, who had broken away and angrily waved the near-empty bottle of wine at the waitstaff that now surrounded her table. Sirens began softly calling in the distance. The monkey’s ears pricked.
    â€œTime to go,” he said.
    We drove toward the