B and I are in essence a tortoise and a hare. He always gets to where he’s going and doesn’t seem to break a sweat, and I run around in circles, screaming “It’s the end of the world and we know it!” and “Our electric tea pot is too slow,” and collapse on the couch, exhausted. In the meantime, he sets a new record in Angry Birds and does our taxes.
So on Saturday morning we are in the process of getting into the car to go grocery shopping. I am standing and waiting, fuming, considering to walk around the block or to raid the fridge. Pretending to be a responsible adult, I pour myself a cup of tea and say,
“This cup of tea is boiling hot but when it’s done, I’m leaving without you.”
The tea is disappearing. B is walking back and forth, humming along to a song in his earphones. And even dancing a little. He’s putting clean laundry away. He’d washed it too. Who could be mad?
As the last line of defense, I cut off a piece of cake with a large chef’s knife. The kind of knife that if it drops on your toe, there’d be no toenails to paint. And walk upstairs to see what B is doing, a knife casually in hand.
He doesn’t notice me, still in a happy bliss of his headphones, putting folded socks in our drawers.
Then he looks up and sees my knife.
As any normal individual, he takes a step back, takes off his headphones and says my favorite line from the Chicago musical.
“And she ran into my knife. Ten times.”