Busy Doing Nothing

The television blares to a non-existent audience as Richard slouches in his favorite chair. His head leans back and his mouth gapes open as he snores. I grab the remote and turn it off.

Richard stirs. "Hey, what did you do that for?"

"You were asleep."

"I was not. I was resting my eyes."

"Do you want the TV back on?"

"No, I'm going to bed where I can stretch out."

"What about the porch project? You promised to get that taken care of today. The carpet will be ruined before it ever gets glued to the floor."

"It'll wait another day or two."

"Three, four or five years," I mutter under my breath.

Richard slowly rises from the chair and limps toward the bedroom. I know he has a problem with his feet, but it seems his limp is exaggeraterd. Is it for my benefit?

"What about the garbage? We need to get the cart out to the curb for their pick-up in the morning."

"Later," he says. "I'm busy," he adds as he closes the bedroom door and shuts out the world.

"Busy?" I yell through the door. "Doing what?"

"Resting," comes the reply.