So many of us

Burt, in one of the many moments of uncertainty about who I am, “met” a woman in our living room.

As is his wont on these occasions, he interrogated me thoroughly.  There was nothing I could say to convince him he was talking to me, his actual wife.

As he does with all the Tamaras, he flirted considerably.

In trying to give him an anchor for identifying who I was, I had stirred the Capgras pot. Once again. It’s not clear to me what I should say when Burt asks, “Who are you, little girl?”

When he “found me” later in the evening, he had buyer’s remorse. I think he worried we two would meet and compare notes. She looked like me, he told me. “And get this she was born where you’re from, too.”

“I don’t know how she got here. What do I tell her if she shows up again?” I said I would be with him. Relieved, he said, “Oh good. Stay with me.”

In every case, he always manages plausible deniability. And I find one more reason for my online handle, “the real Tamara. “

He never denies that he has “other wives,” however. When I was on the phone with his daughter, he said tell her. I asked if it was three or seven. “There’re 15 now,” he reported with pride.