Fiction: The things we do
I'm sleeping on the couch tonight. It's not a comfortable piece of furniture by any stretch of the imagination, sagging like a resigned middle-aged gut, but there's no point investing in anything better till the kids grow up or the cat is toilet-trained, whichever comes first.
Anyway, it's mine for the night and since I won't get a wink of sleep, you might as well know why.
Earlier this evening, I was in the kitchen whipping up my famous vegetable stew when I heard a key scratching in agitation and a resounding thump as the front door banged shut. I didn't need to be channeling Nostra-whatshisname to get the message - loud and clear - she was upset. I hated days like these because it instantly brought a fog of tension to the whole place. I'd quickly recall the endless articles on how to handle such situations to, as the author purringly put it, be a supportive spouse.
Would have said 'husband' but don't always feel like one.
Also, we're supposed to be avoiding gender definitions for the sake of the kid.
Guess who thinks that's fucking stupid but is being a supportive 'spouse' nonetheless.
Anything-to-avoid-tension-spouse/husband, that's me.
So, apparently being supportive meant not asking her what was wrong, which is as stupid as it sounds to you. Instead, the instructions said to pretend like I'd been dropped on my head as a baby, i.e. ask how her day was. 'Fucking awful' being the obvious answer, but hey, like someone was bawling on the radio, it's the sign of the times.
Now, I may not be the smartest person out there but it was still too dumb a question to ask. I'd discovered (quite by accident) that silently pouring her a glass of wine did the trick just as well. She'd pensively take a few sips, give an overwrought sigh and then unload. So, I quickly reached for the corkscrew and wine glasses.
There were a number of things that could and would upset her. Daily. Giving her self-evident solutions to any of them was as good as committing Harakiri. My tried and tested tactic was to nod in sympathy the entire time, throw in a few "hmms, tsk tsks, acchhas" ever so often, and replay highlights of Manchester United's glory days in my head. There were times she'd see a film of tears in my eyes and cut her tale of woe short, moved by how her martyrdom had affected me. Heck, who wouldn't be shedding tears recalling Teddy and Ole's injury time goals, you tell me.
Unfortunately, luck had run out of the hourglass tonight because she suddenly paused mid-diatribe and asked "Don't you think it's outrageous?" Not having a clue where the story had meandered to, my only choice was to ask why.
Maybe it was the withering look. Or the fact that it'd been the kind of day where I'd stopped giving a fuck around noon. It. Doesn't. Matter.
"He sat there, crossing and uncrossing his legs, moving them wide apart... you know, manspreading! Isn't it outrageous?"
"No... it's Basic Instinct."
Ergo, couch. Worth it.
Song for the moment: Killer Queen - Queen
I'm sleeping on the couch tonight. It's not a comfortable piece of furniture by any stretch of the imagination, sagging like a resigned middle-aged gut, but there's no point investing in anything better till the kids grow up or the cat is toilet-trained, whichever comes first.
Anyway, it's mine for the night and since I won't get a wink of sleep, you might as well know why.
Earlier this evening, I was in the kitchen whipping up my famous vegetable stew when I heard a key scratching in agitation and a resounding thump as the front door banged shut. I didn't need to be channeling Nostra-whatshisname to get the message - loud and clear - she was upset. I hated days like these because it instantly brought a fog of tension to the whole place. I'd quickly recall the endless articles on how to handle such situations to, as the author purringly put it, be a supportive spouse.
Would have said 'husband' but don't always feel like one.
Also, we're supposed to be avoiding gender definitions for the sake of the kid.
Guess who thinks that's fucking stupid but is being a supportive 'spouse' nonetheless.
Anything-to-avoid-tension-spouse/husband, that's me.
So, apparently being supportive meant not asking her what was wrong, which is as stupid as it sounds to you. Instead, the instructions said to pretend like I'd been dropped on my head as a baby, i.e. ask how her day was. 'Fucking awful' being the obvious answer, but hey, like someone was bawling on the radio, it's the sign of the times.
Now, I may not be the smartest person out there but it was still too dumb a question to ask. I'd discovered (quite by accident) that silently pouring her a glass of wine did the trick just as well. She'd pensively take a few sips, give an overwrought sigh and then unload. So, I quickly reached for the corkscrew and wine glasses.
There were a number of things that could and would upset her. Daily. Giving her self-evident solutions to any of them was as good as committing Harakiri. My tried and tested tactic was to nod in sympathy the entire time, throw in a few "hmms, tsk tsks, acchhas" ever so often, and replay highlights of Manchester United's glory days in my head. There were times she'd see a film of tears in my eyes and cut her tale of woe short, moved by how her martyrdom had affected me. Heck, who wouldn't be shedding tears recalling Teddy and Ole's injury time goals, you tell me.
Unfortunately, luck had run out of the hourglass tonight because she suddenly paused mid-diatribe and asked "Don't you think it's outrageous?" Not having a clue where the story had meandered to, my only choice was to ask why.
Maybe it was the withering look. Or the fact that it'd been the kind of day where I'd stopped giving a fuck around noon. It. Doesn't. Matter.
"He sat there, crossing and uncrossing his legs, moving them wide apart... you know, manspreading! Isn't it outrageous?"
"No... it's Basic Instinct."
Ergo, couch. Worth it.
Song for the moment: Killer Queen - Queen
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