Backlash

I needed my fourth cup of coffee for the day. I know, you don’t need to say it. But my wife was loading the dishwasher which is in front of the Coffeemaker, and you don’t want to get in her way when she’s doing the dishes you promised to do. I carefully put the k-cup in the coffee machine and the cup below it, but I couldn’t reach the switch to turn it on without interfering with her work.

I asked nicely if she would mind starting the brew, she scowled and punched the button.

I’d been talking to the glass shop, before I paused for another cup of coffee, about the cracked windshields on both our cars. I was negotiating a two for one deal that I didn’t get. The problem for my wife was my request for mobile service, an extra twenty bucks she considered wasted, and one I considered essential because my new iPhone was scheduled to arrive. I’d have to sign for it. And I’d need to transfer my apps and data. I needed to be there when it arrived. I needed to see the retina display. I needed to try out the fingerprint passcode. I needed to see if the phone, as reported, was really that much faster than the previous model.

“Are you going to drink this coffee,” she said.

She was still standing in front of the coffeemaker.

“Yes, but I thought I’d wait until you left. In your current mood I’m not sure it’s safe,” I said.

She did a little Bobcat swipe through the air with one of her claws. I expected her to hiss and spit in my direction, but she smiled instead. I was still worried since not every smile is necessarily a friendly smile, and I wasn’t sure about this one.

“I think I’ll write about it,” I said.

“Don’t you dare,” she said.

She was now standing near the knife drawer.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll write that this isn’t a personal anecdote.”

“That won’t work, they’ll think its true, they’ll know it’s you, they’ll think I’m an asshole,” she said.

“They’ll think its funny,” I said.

“No they won’t, they’ll remember how you once wrote that I was trying to kill you. How I had planned your fall on the stairs leading from the bedroom to the kitchen. Seven steps, seven chances for a misstep, seven chances where a gentle push or pull would end in disaster. I’ll end up looking bad, again. But two can play at this game,” she said. “I’ll write about you. I’ll put it on my Facebook page. Your friends will read it and then you’re the one who will look like the asshole.”

I hadn’t counted on that.

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