I feel especially desolate today

I feel especially desolate today, Penelope told Fred in the kitchen doorway. She had been cleaning out the garbage disposal when she cut her hand on a juice glass that partially chunked up on the blade. He looked at her as the light poured into the sun room from the east. One boob was significantly smaller than the other and he became accustomed to making jokes out of her insecurities. Not today, he thought. She looked too much like a wounded half dog, her bangs flopped over her eyes like broken rabbit ears. Fred didn't know what to think of Penelope anymore, her bleeding dribbles on top of the white carpet had trailed from the linen closet. The peroxide cap still off beside the bottle. I'm an asshole he thought. Then he waved the idea away, opting to personify the wolf he had been called so many times by women who had cared more than he did. What happened to that man he wondered. Who was he. What was he doing here. Did he hate Penelope. Or did he really hate himself. His hair had grown thin the past few years so he wore hats. He took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. Once such thick woman-grabbing hair, he thought and mused on tight bodied Phyllis back in Boston, how she lived in pumps, was young, dangerous. You should really be more careful, Fred finally said. And looked up only to find Penelope was gone.