The Holter (Not Halter)

We are falling apart. And L's employer is paying for it. L is taking a Holter monitor test. Not wearing a halter, as I thought. Holter is the guy who invented the monitor, attached to L's belt during the day and put in a shirt pocket at night, to record everything his heart is doing and not doing over 24 hours. The cardiologists want to rule out arrhythmia, which is not good for thrice-a-week basketball players, or anybody else for that matter. L is irritated because electrode wires are stuck to his chest and the adhesive is itchy. I offered him an Ambien for tonight but he says that only works for three hours. He had a margarita at El Jardin tonight and that relaxed him some. The restaurant is fairly quiet when the Cubs fans haven't taken it over. We shared an order of vegetarian tamales. I hope they are vegetarian. They are called that, and I hope that lard is not used to make the outer masa portion. When I was first a vegetarian I was vigilant, grilling waitstaffs but now that I eat fish and chicken, I don't always want to know.

L asks why this level of detail about him is necessary. Comments, anyone?

He is pressing tape against my scalp then pulling it off to see if loosely-held stubble will come out. This interests and amuses both of us. We are like monkeys checking one another for lice. At least he doesn't eat the hairs. That is what we call evolution.