Welcome to Saturday

We have problem. Two problems actually, she said. Okay, he said, standing near foot on the kitchen floor, the warm grog of sleep, heavy on his shoulders, the smell of fresh brewed coffee everywhere. And he knew, mornings like these, when she would invite him into her thoughts that felt like she had spent three weeks thinking about, the best strategy, at 7am, in the presence of coffee, but no caffeine currently wetting the lips, is the strategy of surviving undertow, breath, don’t panic work yourself away from the center. What are they, he asked. The hot glue gun, she said. It’s been plugged in all night. Yeah, not good, he said. Wondering how he could have missed that. Nothing stays plugged in overnight unless it absolutely has to, unless the act of unplugging it would put shear forces on the column of marriage, the way in the early days when, before bed, after checking double checking and triple checking the doors and windows he would proceed to unplug all the lamps and appliances from their sockets as well, until his wife, one morning to many, entering into a dark living room, and having to reset the clock on he toaster oven yet again, he was informed that this must stop. That it is too much. That either he stop it, get help, or they were going to be stopped. From now on, she said, E. Must unplug the gun and leave it on this plate on the other side of the counter when she’s finished. Uh huh, he said. Situation solved he thought, a problem that didn’t involve pipe fixing, or appliance repair, or electrical intervention, of course, if the hot glue that his daughter used to build art projects, poured out across the counter moving slow and infernally hot across the counter, onto the floor, found their way to the curtains and ignited them in a sheet of flame, that could have been a much uglier and profoundly unsafe scenario. The coffe pot full, just behind his wife. The second problem, she said. Yeah, he said, not having yet moved from his position. Spotting the full pot of coffee behind his wife, his favorite mug beside the machine. The dog food cans, she said. There’s so much food left in them. Look how much came out when I washed them. He followed her gaze to the sink, the drain strainer, and the tiny pieces of pulverized turkey, that the dog had been eating for the last two weeks, ever since they pulled a $4000 plastic bag from his belly, still full of staples, looking like a miniature railroad track. He regarded the dog food. Waiting on the problem. Two problems she had said. The coffee machine made a quiet hissing noise, a shot of steam escaped from the top lid. I wash out the cans, she said. Okay, he said. Why don’t you wash out the cans? I do, he said. No you don’t, look at all the food in the strainer, He was looking at the strainer. Wondering if perhaps she had another exhibit. It’s expensive, she said. You need to clean out the cans. Yeah, he said, yeah, no problem. I wash out the cans, she said. Uh huh, yup. I don’t think your listening to what I am saying. What do you mean? You always get that look on your face like yeah,yeah whatever. I don’t know what your talking about. Of course you don’t, she said. Leaving the sink and striding across the kitchen to the fridge. Thehanfle of the coffee pot felt warm in his hand. He filled his favorite mug up to the brim. Petted the head of the bad Labrador, framed in the giant , beaten up cone, who had come into the kitchen to search for crumbs. Welcome to Saturday big fella, he said.