poised to cross out our days.
18.
T HE STORY THAT INEVITABLY BROUGHT my wife out of her funk was that of another local business owner.
My wife, thrilled at the end of her dry-spell, bombarded me when I walked in the door at the end of the day.
“I found a story!” she said while flinging her arms about my neck. She showered my face with wide-spread smiling kisses. She pushed me against the door with a tackling hug and my laptop bag fell to the ground with a blunt thump.
My wife didn’t notice.
She placed my hand on her waist.
My wife grasped my shoulder.
My wife pulled our other hands together and projected them away from us, tugging tango-like into the living room, me tripping over my feet, she gliding, for once graceful.
“I ended up talking with the owner of the bakery down the street for almost an hour as he closed the store down for the day. He was a delightful man. You would not believe what he’s been through!” She gripped my hand tighter. “You can’t imagine how excited I am!” She was still guiding me around the room with our joined fists.
“I think I have a vague idea,” I said, laughingly as she twirled on the end of my hand. I, despite all, was still thinking about my dropped laptop lying by the front door.
My wife spun herself into me. “Finally!” She let out a dramatic sigh and collapsed in my arms, forcing me to dip her, to support all of her weight but the little left on the tips of her toes, dragging on the ground.
I carried my wife to the couch. “Let me get this straight. You lost your stories with a butcher. You found them with a baker. If my powers of prediction are all they’re cracked up to be—”
She came to life again, eyes wide, warning me. “Don’t even say it.”
I kissed my wife and she pushed me away playfully. I said, “You knew you had it coming. Anyone would have made the connection. You could have tweaked that story so it didn’t sound quite so ridiculous.”
My wife stood, haughty now. “I happen to think it’s horrifically coincidental that I had to resume my storytelling with a baker, but, as you know, I never ‘tweak’ a story, even if it means I’m going to have to deal with your ridicule.”
I held out my arms, apologizing but triumphant, and my wife collapsed onto the couch so that I might hug her, congratulate her again.
I was relieved. It had been a difficult six months of unpredictable temperaments and a certain sense of ennui that cut through even the most enlivening events. I had spent those months trying to think up ways to break the mood and nothing had worked. It had been all shrugging and sighing.
I was nothing but relieved my wife would begin recording her stories again, and yet what I said was: “I’m going to miss you when you retreat to your shut-in time. I’ve enjoyed having you for a bit more of each day.”
My wife pulled away. Her face, a moment ago spread so wide,closed in on itself. “I was miserable, and you say you’ll miss me when I’m doing what makes me happy, what keeps me sane?”
I told my wife, “I’m so happy your stories have returned.”
I told her, “I though it would be romantic to say I would miss you now.”
I said, “I need the you in my life that tells those stories.”
My wife believed me, but she still frowned.
My wife said, “I wouldn’t exist.”
My wife said, “I’m younger for these quiet months of mine.”
She said, “I think it’s time to start tacking on the memories again.”
The trees were beginning to unravel green in the early April light.
19.
M Y WIFE HAD A KEEN ear for chit chat and bullshit, which she claimed were the same thing, and neither of which she cared for.
She wasn’t keen to answer questions she didn’t have to. There were days I would ask her how she was and it wasn’t that she ignored me so much as just didn’t feel like answering my question, or saying so. My wife knew the difference between an honest question and a fill-in-the-blank.
My wife
18.
T HE STORY THAT INEVITABLY BROUGHT my wife out of her funk was that of another local business owner.
My wife, thrilled at the end of her dry-spell, bombarded me when I walked in the door at the end of the day.
“I found a story!” she said while flinging her arms about my neck. She showered my face with wide-spread smiling kisses. She pushed me against the door with a tackling hug and my laptop bag fell to the ground with a blunt thump.
My wife didn’t notice.
She placed my hand on her waist.
My wife grasped my shoulder.
My wife pulled our other hands together and projected them away from us, tugging tango-like into the living room, me tripping over my feet, she gliding, for once graceful.
“I ended up talking with the owner of the bakery down the street for almost an hour as he closed the store down for the day. He was a delightful man. You would not believe what he’s been through!” She gripped my hand tighter. “You can’t imagine how excited I am!” She was still guiding me around the room with our joined fists.
“I think I have a vague idea,” I said, laughingly as she twirled on the end of my hand. I, despite all, was still thinking about my dropped laptop lying by the front door.
My wife spun herself into me. “Finally!” She let out a dramatic sigh and collapsed in my arms, forcing me to dip her, to support all of her weight but the little left on the tips of her toes, dragging on the ground.
I carried my wife to the couch. “Let me get this straight. You lost your stories with a butcher. You found them with a baker. If my powers of prediction are all they’re cracked up to be—”
She came to life again, eyes wide, warning me. “Don’t even say it.”
I kissed my wife and she pushed me away playfully. I said, “You knew you had it coming. Anyone would have made the connection. You could have tweaked that story so it didn’t sound quite so ridiculous.”
My wife stood, haughty now. “I happen to think it’s horrifically coincidental that I had to resume my storytelling with a baker, but, as you know, I never ‘tweak’ a story, even if it means I’m going to have to deal with your ridicule.”
I held out my arms, apologizing but triumphant, and my wife collapsed onto the couch so that I might hug her, congratulate her again.
I was relieved. It had been a difficult six months of unpredictable temperaments and a certain sense of ennui that cut through even the most enlivening events. I had spent those months trying to think up ways to break the mood and nothing had worked. It had been all shrugging and sighing.
I was nothing but relieved my wife would begin recording her stories again, and yet what I said was: “I’m going to miss you when you retreat to your shut-in time. I’ve enjoyed having you for a bit more of each day.”
My wife pulled away. Her face, a moment ago spread so wide,closed in on itself. “I was miserable, and you say you’ll miss me when I’m doing what makes me happy, what keeps me sane?”
I told my wife, “I’m so happy your stories have returned.”
I told her, “I though it would be romantic to say I would miss you now.”
I said, “I need the you in my life that tells those stories.”
My wife believed me, but she still frowned.
My wife said, “I wouldn’t exist.”
My wife said, “I’m younger for these quiet months of mine.”
She said, “I think it’s time to start tacking on the memories again.”
The trees were beginning to unravel green in the early April light.
19.
M Y WIFE HAD A KEEN ear for chit chat and bullshit, which she claimed were the same thing, and neither of which she cared for.
She wasn’t keen to answer questions she didn’t have to. There were days I would ask her how she was and it wasn’t that she ignored me so much as just didn’t feel like answering my question, or saying so. My wife knew the difference between an honest question and a fill-in-the-blank.
My wife
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