Summary
A matrimonial chessboard, sunlit by Edwardian parlor windows, hosts Jimmie and his eponymous spouse as they test the tensile strength of monogamy. Each flirtation—hers with a glinting monocled banker, his with a watercolorist who smells faintly of turpentine and violets—plays like a brittle waltz whose steps are muffled by conscience the instant desire crests. Middle age, that quiet tax collector, arrives to claim the bill: creaking knees, shared memories of whooping cough scares, and the irrefutable gravitational pull of a partner who already knows how you like your tea. The film’s comic tremors feel heart-stings rather than guffaws; every stolen kiss is interrupted not by slapstick but by the sudden memory of a spouse’s cough at 3 a.m., the way their hand found your wrist under blankets. By the time the final reel folds, the couple’s half-hearted dalliances have evaporated like cologne at daybreak, leaving only the sweet, sobering residue of mutual recognition: nobody else will ever finish your sentences this accurately.
Synopsis
Jimmie Wickett and his wife both try their hands at flirting with others. In each instance the ardor of the chase is speedily dampened by too much conscience, the solidifying effects of middle age and the fact that they love each other more than anyone else.
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