David Miller got home that Friday evening from work to find his wife of twenty-two years waiting for him. It was obvious from the expression on Michelle’s face that something was wrong. As he sat down in his recliner, David wondered if he’d put the toilet seat down that morning before leaving for work. But whatever the problem, he’d learned over the last two decades that his wife would tell him in her own good time.
Michelle hit the mute button on the remote and turned to David as he got comfortable and loosened his tie. She pushed her long dark hair behind her ears, which was a sign that she might be agitated. She’d probably sat in the same place on the sofa for the past two hours rehearsing what she would say. He decided to let her break the silence.
“How was your day, dear?”
“Good, thanks,” he replied. He could have told her about how Jenkins got caught by the new GM photocopying his ass – just to liven things up – but that would probably have caused more agitation. “How was your day?”
“It was normal, for the most part.” Michelle had been sitting cross-legged, what some call Indian style, and took the time to stretch her long legs and prop her feet on the coffee table. Then she hit him with it: “Do you know what your daughter has been up to?”
David breathed a momentary silent sigh of relief. This wasn’t about him and he was thankfully off the hook. Now maybe he would have a decent weekend of blissful relaxation before Monday rolled around and the whole mess of earning a living started again. Then, just as quickly, he felt remorse that he was glad it was his daughter in trouble and not himself. But maybe it wasn’t so bad. Michelle sometimes had the habit of making a mountain out of a molehill. He decided to take it carefully.
“Other than going to college and hanging out with a bunch of borderline psychopaths, I wouldn’t know.” He smiled at his wife and shrugged. “I don’t see that much of her anymore, Michelle. She has classes and other interests, I have a seventy hour work week, and the twain does not always meet.”
“It isn’t funny, David,” she said crossly.
“It wasn’t meant to be funny.”
Michelle looked at her husband for a long moment, and then stood up. “I’m sorry for being such a bitch. Would you like a drink?”
“I would love a drink. A very large one.”
Michelle walked to the portable bar and mixed a rum and coke in a large glass, added ice and took it to her husband. She resumed her place on the sofa at the end nearest his recliner and he glanced her way with a genuine smile. He was fortunate, he knew, as he studied her for a moment. Some women became total bitches after twenty-two years of marriage but Michelle had, for the most part, kept what she called her dignity. Being unreasonable and quarrelsome was not a dignified answer to trouble, and she considered those traits even less admirable in women. David and Michelle had an easy, comfortable rapport, mostly because of Michelle’s refusal to argue. Of the two, she had always been the one that brought some sense of reasoning to their relationship. She insisted that they talk about any problem that arose, look for a rational answer, and then move on.
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