We don't yell, but we did yesterday.
We've been waiting for a letter from the surgeon.
I sent them an email, I tried to sound easy to get along with, undemanding.
At the the end of the day there's a familiar sound of keys being dropped on a side table, while a tie is loosened.
"Have you heard from the Urologist?" the kitchen swallows the tension and serves it up with the evening meal.
This is marriage. This is what they need to tell you during the ceremony. Will you take this bride with her diverticulum...".
You lay side by side, bodies motionless, while minds are alert with what if's and lists. Thoughts crackle, they feel like they will explode from your ears and the top of your head. Bodies motionless. You reach out to hold the familiar hand that lays next to you.
In the morning the routine continues.
"Have you heard from the Urologist?"
You send another note, this one has an edge. You don't like how you sound but you've already rang and you're not sure what else to do. You need that report.
Another day passes.
In the morning there's an email.
They haven't sent the right thing. There's no letterhead. No detail.
He can't contain himself any longer.
"Did you read what they sent? Who are these idiots?" It's been a long week at work.
The crackles and the electricity can no longer contain itself, there's an explosion.
You both begin sentences of the worst kind.
"You need to..."
"You should have..."
"Why didn't you.."
"I tried to, but you said"
There's no time to talk about it. Someone arrives at the door to remind you both it's the Halloween parade at school. People need to put costumes on, someone needs a hot pink shirt to show their support for breast cancer. The scene changes, time moves along, but your words hang where you left them. They share the space in between you. You don't make eye contact while you work together at getting the children ready.
Do you take this bride with her diverticulum and promise to cuff the pants of your Zombie child while she colours the face of your blue crayon?
He says goodbye and you do not kiss. You always kiss.
In the afternoon you stand in a supermarket with a child in an oversized hot pink shirt, a blue crayon, a soldier, and what's left of a zombie. You wonder how his day has been.
You send a text "getting printer cartridges".
His reply is chirpy, we've been paid, he's leaving the office shortly.
You arrive home to discover flowers on the table.
"For the love of my life"
Do you take this bride with her diverticulum and her incompetent urological administration staff.
This is marriage. This is love.
This is G.
This is why I adore him.