At Least They're Committed

On my tip-toes, I’m organizing boxes of cereal and granola bars in the upper cupboard, debating whether I should sort them alphabetically or by size and being noncommittal because I just really don’t care that much. Maddie barely eats, she’s slender to a fault, but she buys and buys and buys. Our cupboards are burgeoning, cartons stacked one upon the other.

“So,” he says, sitting at my kitchen table typing frantically on the laptop. “Your son has Elvis playing in the background of his video game?”

“Yup,” I reply a bit winded as I hop high enough to toss the Special K 90 calorie bars atop one layer of Honey Nut Cheerios and another layer of Post Raisin Bran.

“I thought you disliked Elvis,” his eyes never leave the screen as he continues to type.

I close the cupboard, pushing the door a little harder to stuff the lips of the boxes farther in. “Just because I don’t like someone doesn’t mean I don’t recognize and appreciate their contributions, in this case, to music and to society.”

“Ah.” He keeps typing as I plop in the chair across from him. I stare at his blue eyes behind the screen, motionless with only the sound of Cold Kentucky Rain and his fingers snapping at the keys.

“So, was there something you wanted to talk about?” I finally ask.

He stops and sits back, his brows furrow a bit. “Hmmm,” he finally looks at me straight on. “Seems like it, doesn’t it?”

He ponders a few seconds more, “Escapes me. Well, no matter, what’s new with you?”

Now it’s my turn to sit back and ponder. “Huh, well, watched Big Fish on Friday night. Love that movie. Walked and ran to the restaurant for lunch yesterday. It was great out. Introduced Lu to Maddie’s rat and they refused to acknowledge each other.”

He chuckles and goes back to typing.

“Lu just sat on my lap the whole time. I squeezed this thing in his flank and it shot puss all over the place.”

He laughs and looks directly into my eyes, the corners of his mouth curving high enough to register above the laptop.

“It was sooooo GROSS!” I choke out, smiling. He nods.

The room goes quiet again, the game has transitioned to Sinatra and Martin.

“And you?” I quietly ask.

“Busy, busy,” he shakes his head and snaps the laptop shut.

My arms are criss-crossed over my chest. “I’m sorry.”

He stands, smiles, “Thanks.”

And he leaves and I say “sure” and wonder why I didn’t snag a Special K 90 calorie bar before tossing them out of my reach.