I‘m desperate to tell my wife one of my amusing observations but I haven’t been able to catch her in a good mood…until now.
“Hi darling,” I say.
“Go away!” she replies and continues to unload the dishwasher. Ok, so I didn’t find the right time, but it’s hard to keep the lid on a whimsical observation.
I nervously shuffle towards her. “You know,” I say and move further into her personal space – hindering her ability to put the dishes away, “how I’ve had this really weird run of good luck for the past seven days?”
“Get out of my face! Get out my face!” she shrieks.
The preamble to my amusing observation has made her so mad that she just throws the cutlery into the drawer without separating them into their correct compartments. I feel it necessary to point this out.
“Darling,” I say, “when I put the cutlery away, I always separate them.”
My wife is on her knees attempting to grab a rogue spoon – desperate to escape its fate of being hurled through the air – by lying lifeless at the bottom of the washer. With rosy cheeks and hair askew she looks up at me and says, “When you ‘put away’, you don’t have Jimmy fucking Cranky up your arse trying to tell you a joke.” Then I hear the familiar ‘shunk’ noise of more cutlery being launched into the drawer. I see the spoon looking distraught in the fork compartment. At this point I am tempted to abort, but I don’t.
“Well,” I say but I’m interrupted by my son who gets up from the dinner table and scrapes his food into the bin. It misses and the chilli trickles down the sides – splattering on the floor. He throws the plate down on the counter top, looks down at his mother and says, “The chilli wasn’t very nice,” then shuffles away.
My wife moves onto the cereal bowls, so I block her way to the cupboard. “Well,” I continue, “my good luck all started last Sunday…” I trail off as I notice that one of the bowls still has a bit of dried-up porridge on it. I feel it necessary to point this out.
Later that night we make our way to bed. We lay next to each other in silence. The tension between us is amplified by the darkness. The bed, a place that usually feels like home, feels alien. I’m a spoon in a fork drawer. I can’t bear the tension any further. I turn to my wife and say, “Well, my good luck all started last Sunday when…”