"Get up!" The bedroom door bursts open and a man's dark silhouette fills the opening. "You can help me load up the truck. We'll go to the dump and then to town for breakfast."
I ungrit my teeth and make a quick decision: today I won't kill him for waking me in that rude fashion. Slowly my heartbeat returns to normal. Breakfast in town sounds good; I can have bacon without having to clean the fatty mess from a frying pan, one of my least favourite kitchen duties.
But hurry on a Saturday morning? I think not. Besides, hurrying only slows me down. I wash and dress at my usual speed, and by the time I get out to the truck he's got it loaded already. We drive north and west and north and west and north again to the landfill site.
It's a rainy day and he says "You might as well stay inside; it's muddy" and I don't argue; I'm grateful to be let off the hook. He unloads the truck, which is pulled in alongside a neighbour's, and I listen to the two of them chatting back and forth as they throw garbage onto heaps.
It ain't pretty.
I pull a library book out of my bag: Flaubert's Parrot, by Julian Barnes.
My fella gets a few things right. One: suggest your gal remain warm and dry while you muck out the truck; she will feel like a queen. Two: take her for breakfast and eat the second fried egg, the hashbrowns and the last strip of bacon on her plate; she likes to see a man with a hearty appetite. Three: pop across the street for groceries and then grab all the full bags from the checkout, even when she is perfectly willing to carry some. She admires your manly strength.
There is still one thing he has not learned after 16 years together: wake her gently, softly, politely. Thunder is not the best way to start the day.
my first reading of the day. you made it so easy.
How kind of you to say, Lorna, when you were probably really thinking, "Pfft, why the hell did I bother?" and who could blame you?
Happy birthday to Emil!
Thanks, I'll tell him!