John hates winter or does he?
What Do You Really Mean?
I enjoy the silence of the house as I sip my wine.
The garage door goes up and the laundry room door opens.
“I hate winter!” my husband yells as he kicks off his boots.
“You do not, John.”
“I do! I slid all the way home.”
If the least little thing goes wrong, John hates everything.
“What happened at work?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just hate winter.”
“When we’re up at the cabin you love winter.”
“Well, that’s different,” he says as he opens the refrigerator. “That’s the cabin.”
He starts making himself a snack.
“We’re eating in twenty minutes.”
“Can’t a guy have a snack after a hard day?”
What’s wrong, honey?”
We have been married for fifteen years and I know John like a book.
“I don’t want to discuss it!” He stomps off, baloney sandwich in hand.
“We’re having meatloaf. Your favorite.”
“I hate meatloaf!”
When he’s out of earshot, I dial my friend, Elise, who works with him at Morris Motors. She tells me what’s going on. I see why he’s upset.
John cuts through to the family room. He kicks back in his recliner and turns on Tucker Carlson’s opening monologue.
“I hate this guy!”
He loves Tucker Carlson.
“I know what’s wrong, John. I called Elise.”
I massage his scalp. He loves when I do that.
“I hate when you do that!” He pulls away.
“We have enough savings until you find another job, honey,” I lie.
“I’m a forty-six-year-old used car salesman.”
“We’ll be fine,” I say. “We can spend more time up at the cabin this winter.”
“I love you,” he says and leans into the massage.