Weekends

In the morning, the sky is ash. The warm air has been blown out to some place far away. In the shower, there is mold that I don't ever see.
I told her the other day that I would never wash the shower. That it was a thing that I just wouldn't do.
On Saturday morning when I am trying to sleep I hear her making noise in the bathroom. "I'm pulling out the caulk because it's all moldy." Neither one of us even makes a joke. You've got at least a hundred different types of mold growing in there" she says.
"Are you impressed," I ask, but my words are lost beneath the grunts she emits while pulling out the caulk.

I spend the better part of the morning trying to sleep, groaning whenever she makes a loud noise from the bathroom. When I finally arise at 10:30, I call her into the room.
"I've decided to start washing my own bathroom," I say. "I'd like you to show me how."
"You're a good husband," she says, And a smart one."
Discretion is often the best part of valor.

In the afternoon she mops the floors, while I read a book on the porch.
"Can you take your shoes off for the next couple of days," she asks, imploring.

"I'll try my best," I say. "I can't make any promises if I'm not wearing sandals."

She says, "Your bathroom is a cesspool!"
And I take mild offense. I'm also somewhat proud of my bathroom, because like the azalea, and the dying pansies, I consider it my own. "Don't say it so loudly," I say, not where it can hear you."

In the evening we watch a television show.
"I'm going to have nightmares about this," she says.
"It's not scary," I say, "It's suspenseful."

In the afternoon she puts together the lawn mower while I dig at the roots of poison ivy in blissful ignorance. Our neighbor's dog runs up to the fence and starts growling at us. "We need a bigger fence," she says.
And I nod, waving a yellow wiffle bat in the direction of the dog, as if he'd understand.

On Monday I used her cell phone as a bookmark because nothing else was at hand. I'll use other books, tv controllers, keys, anything as a book mark. Anything but bookmarks, which I'm particularly averse to.
She e-mails me from work.
"I can't find my phone." she says.
I answer, It makes a great bookmark.

The truth of the matter is that we have more weeds than grass. Our neighbor's lawn has bermuda, which I'm particularly fond of. Mostly, we cut rip out the large weeds with our hands since the push mower doesn't quite handle them.

That afternoon I have a root beer on the porch, feel the sun warm my arms, knowing that I've done a good day's work. She is on the porch for another hour, washing off the pollen and cleaning the new rocking chairs.

"You need to know when to quit," I tell her, belching back a little bit of root beer.

"You're right, she says, and sighs.