Monday morning, I was in the shower minding my own business when my right eye fell  out. It bounced once on the wet tile, rolled and then stared back at me. I thought if I closed my  left eye, I might see myself as others see me, but that wasn’t the case. Surprised, I sealed my eye  in a plastic sandwich baggie and placed it carefully in the back of the refrigerator. My meeting  schedule for the day was already overloaded. I’d have to fix it later after work. 

During breakfast, Helen sipped at her coffee and told me she thought we needed a change  of scenery. 

“Why?” I said. 

“You don’t notice me anymore,” she replied. “Not a word about my new outfit or  hairstyle yesterday. I feel like I’ve become a ghost to you.” 

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been distracted lately. I’m working to get my efforts noticed by  upper management.” 

She gave me a penetrating look as I prepared to leave. “It would be nice to try to see  things from my point of view once in a while. We’re not connecting. 

Two evenings later I was in the bathroom combing my hair when my right ear came off.  It plopped on the counter and then slid slowly into the sink, earhole up. I thought if I plugged my  left ear, I might hear things as others hear them, but that wasn’t the case. Disappointed, I rinsed it  off, took it to the kitchen and laid it next to my eye in the fridge. We couldn’t be late for the  company’s summer social. I’d have to fix it the following morning.

At dinner, Helen poked her over-cooked fish and told me we should pay more attention to  each other. 

“What?” I said. 

“You don’t hear me anymore,” she replied. “Not a word in response to my summer  vacation suggestions. I feel like I’m talking to a deaf person.” 

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been stressed lately. I’m struggling to get my ideas heard by the  bosses.” 

She leaned in close and whispered into my ear with resignation. “It would be nice if you took some time to listen to what I’m trying to tell you. We’re not communicating.” 

Near week’s end, I was in bed reaching for my book when my right hand dropped off. It  landed on the carpet palm up, curled fingers wiggling slowly to a stop. I thought if I remained  motionless and focused, I might feel things beyond my normal grasp, but that wasn’t the case. Frustrated, I grabbed it by the thumb, went downstairs and tossed it into the fridge next to the  other parts. It was late and work was wearing me down. I’d have to fix it over the weekend. 

Beside me, Helen closed her book, turned, and told me she needed to start living with  more intimacy. 

“How?” I said. 

“You don’t touch me anymore,” she replied. “No hugs or kiss goodnight when we get  into bed. I feel like I’m sleeping next to a mannequin.” 

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been tired lately. I’m so close to getting promoted, I can feel it.” She ran her fingers lightly over my chest, then rolled away. “You’re so distant from me these days that even when I reach out, I can’t feel you anymore. We’ve lost touch.” 

The next morning, I was getting some coffee in the breakroom when my boss entered. I was doing good work, he said. He appreciated my long hours of dedication to the project. That  kind of effort shows loyalty to the company, he said. My prospects were good. How about  coming over to his place for Sunday dinner? He would be happy to look over my cost-cutting  proposal and listen to my supporting arguments. He knew I was being considered for promotion and would be happy to lend a hand reviewing my evaluation write-ups. I left the office buoyed  with the hope of a better future. 

Back home, there was a note stuck to the refrigerator door. 

“I’ve tried to reach out to you to let you know my feelings, but you’ve been so  preoccupied with work that I’ve given up. We’ve lost our togetherness. I’ve decided to  spend some time traveling and staying with friends. Don’t know when I’ll be back.” Helen 

I went to bed shaken but confident that all Helen and I needed was time. Once I get promoted, we’ll reconnect. I’ll have more time then. 

I awoke on Saturday feeling as though my senses were muffled. I went into work  thinking I would be able to clear my head, but my condition worsened. I thought about calling  Helen but decided to let her make the first move. 

Once home, I called a friend of mine who was a doctor, asking him if he could give me a  quick checkup. He swung by after his golf game. 

“You look run down,” he said to me, his face creasing in worry. “In fact, you look like  you’re falling apart. Tell me what’s happening.” 

I ticked off my symptoms, then took my parts from refrigerator to show him. He  examined them with sympathy. “No wonder you’re feeling depleted. How are things at home?  How are things with Helen?” 

“Not so good,” I said. “I think Helen has left me.” 

I told him I was under a lot of pressure at work, but a promotion was within reach. More  money, more free time. I was working toward a better life. Helen didn’t seem to understand my  sacrifices. He nodded and took out a stethoscope from his bag. “Let’s have a listen to your  heart.” 

I breathed deep while he methodically placed the cold diaphragm from front to back.  When he finished, he looked me in the eye. “Your heart sounds just fine. But I think it’s in the  wrong place.”