Your biggest test for being with a man

is not the bundle of soiled clothes in the basket.

Nor is it the toilet seat left in the upright position.

It's certainly not sex.

The answer is always seafood.

He is a fisherman after all.

But he brings you trout with such reproving eyes.

You grimace as he peels the skin with pliers.

Hand flies to stomach

as he grinds into the fish's anus,

severs the creature to the base of the gills,

spreads the abdominal cavity

with steady fingers and thumbs,

removes the bones, the entrails, the fins, the tail,

but leaves that damnable head to last.

You feel like a medical student

observing your first operation.

Nausea grips you from head to gut.

Your job is to sauté the onions and garlic.

But the real work is to stay on your feet

as body parts pile up on a paper towel,

and the remains await the sizzling pan.

And he has to keep turning toward you

as if to coax you deeper into this sadistic ritual

or merely ask the question, "Are we having fun yet?"

This really is an examination

of more than just your beguiling face, choice personality.

And passion won't get you through the night

but a filet knife cuts to the heart of commitment -

or the liver more likely.

You wonder if your resolute stand against getting sick

will someday blossom into love.

Or will it just bring on slithery eels.

Or sloppy squid maybe.