It seems I'm incapable of doing anything unless it's on a list.
|She shouts and stomps and bangs,
exagerating every motion.
She's not happy, I can see,
then I remember that night in Rhyl
when I covered her in baby lotion.
It makes me smile.
That's not a good idea, I think,
and hide my face under the duvet.
"Are you getting out of that bed today?"
Her angry voice does nothing to hide
the impending marriage affray.
"How would I know," I counter.
Oh no, why am I saying this? Now she's pissed.
The words continue like an unstoppable
avalanche of antagonism.
"You didn't put it on the list."
It seems there's a list for everything these days.
The other day she wrote me a note saying,
"Don't forget to look at your list. Love you."
Now, forgive me, but isn't that a list about a list?
And her priorities, it seems, make love item two.
I drag myself into the bathroom. My place.
A sanctuary for strategy, reflection, contemplation,
and if I take my time she'll be gone in a hour.
Thoughtfully I consider my options.
Should I brush my teeth first, or take a shower?
I needn't have worried, the answer soon came to me.
The corner of my eye caught the note coming under the door.
I picked it up and read it carefully. It said,
Sarcasm is a bit like a Donald Trump speech.
It can elicit both anger and joy depending
on when it is said and who it is said to.
I wasn't angry.
I wiped my ass with the note, pushed it back under the door and shouted,
"I love you too!"