It seems I'm incapable of doing anything unless it's on a list. |
She shouts and stomps and bangs, exagerating every motion. She's not happy, I can see, then I remember that night in Rhyl when I covered her in baby lotion. It makes me smile. That's not a good idea, I think, and hide my face under the duvet. "Are you getting out of that bed today?" Her angry voice does nothing to hide the impending marriage affray. "How would I know," I counter. Oh no, why am I saying this? Now she's pissed. The words continue like an unstoppable avalanche of antagonism. "You didn't put it on the list." It seems there's a list for everything these days. The other day she wrote me a note saying, "Don't forget to look at your list. Love you." Now, forgive me, but isn't that a list about a list? And her priorities, it seems, make love item two. I drag myself into the bathroom. My place. A sanctuary for strategy, reflection, contemplation, and if I take my time she'll be gone in a hour. Thoughtfully I consider my options. Should I brush my teeth first, or take a shower? I needn't have worried, the answer soon came to me. The corner of my eye caught the note coming under the door. I picked it up and read it carefully. It said, Shit Shower Brush teeth Drop dead Sarcasm is a bit like a Donald Trump speech. It can elicit both anger and joy depending on when it is said and who it is said to. I wasn't angry. I wiped my ass with the note, pushed it back under the door and shouted, "I love you too!" |