Honey, I'm Home

My wife is leaving her job at the end of this week - she's preparing to be a self-employed, full-time, working-from-what-used-to-be-our-dining-room freelance illustrator. She's embarking on a new journey of fulfilment and accomplishment. Me, I'm just having strange dreams.

It starts with the drive home from work, pulling the car into the garage, tugging my I.D. necklace up and off me, and turning the knob on the door leading into the house. When I step inside, she's over at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, wearing an apron.

An apron, I tell you.

For some reason, I slip out of my shoes, which inexplicably slip off as loafers onto the floor, and stroll over and wrap my arms around her waist, kissing the back of her neck. "Something smells delicious!" I say to her, and she coos something about lobster thermidor. Then there's a glass of scotch or brandy or something in my hand. Just right there. She goes on, inquiring politely about my whole day, listening intently and never interrupting, then when I'm finished she explains that all the laundry is done, the sheets and pillowcases ironed, and all the hardwood floors given a nice hearty shine from an as-directed application of BeamBest, by Woodco.

So if I'm a little sluggish this morning, that's why. It's hard to feel rested when you wake up screaming and rolling out of bed, desperately pawing at the floor to make sure it's still rough and neglected.

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