Friday, October 14, 2011
Rob is perfect. He stumbles out to the couch, around two or three to watch old movies, and when I make an appearance, he greets me like I'm the best thing on the planet and then nods off for a few hours. Yep perfect.
I can't find my coffee cup.
I can never find my coffee cup and the longer I search, the harder I snick the cabinet doors. "Dammit Rob." I hiss and grumble. I know this is his fault. It's always his fault.
Sprawled on the lazy boy, he lifts his head and blinks at me.
A muscle twitches beneath my left eye. "What have you done with my cup?" I roar, and then find it perched on a precarious pile of glassware.
Instead of nestling the bowls, like God intended, Rob has stacked them, small, medium, and then large in a growing pile of imminent disaster. An oblong casserole pan tops his creation and there in the center is my prized, insulated coffee cup."Dammit Rob."
The corners of his lips twitch.
And then I get it. "Oh my Gawd," I narrow my eyes, "you do this on purpose."
"For eight years?"
He nods and I want to poke him with a fork. "Walk the dog," I say, "and make it a long one."