REALITY?: Spousal Misuse

At two a.m. I awoke from a night-long nap on the couch. By two-thirty, I had screwed up a Microsoft Update Driver Download, ran off some meeting flyers, figured out my first quarter sales tax for the frame shop, and ate another quarter of a coconut custard pie.

While you wouldn’t want the security of the nation to be dependent upon me as far as food is concerned, I am not one easily tempted by sweets. I admit that Italian Cream Cake and Trifles would not unseal my lips, but I might blabber and turn in my own flesh and blood should a handsome young devil—or Willie—come dancing my way with boiled lobster in hand. I may write something deep now and then, but evidently I am truly quite shallow, so bear this in mind with your secrets. But I live quite well and trustworthy as stone without desserts, and luckily my husband is similar in his own tastes. However…

Coconut Custard Pie is one of the rare delicacies that are my undoing. My husband knows this and if the rose of the week doesn’t keep me in good humour, he will eventually bring home a pie. This last one was a large 10 incher (I was really pretty down in spirit) and the way I see it, there are four servings to any size Coconut Custard Pie, no matter how you slice it because it slides down the throat so easily without much needless chewing so it takes more to satisfy the taste buds.

At four a.m. I awoke this loving man by tenderly scratching his back. There was one serving of pie left in the refrigerator, so you can imagine my chagrin when while sitting back here at the computer I hear noises from the kitchen that sound suspiciously like the plastic container that holds my pie and my mood within. I wait, hearing him pour himself a cup of the coffee I dutifully made ready for his early morning pleasure, then listen as he makes his way down the hall to where I sit in the office. Unbelievably, instead of his morning muffin he is holding a plate upon which sits a quivering (coconut custard can quiver, another reason I like it) sliver of custard. Thinking, of course, that my tender ministrations to his itches this morning were being reciprocated, I start to turn around and reach toward the plate only to watch helplessly as he lifts a forkful to his mouth.

Here, I must say, is where I realized not only my maturity and a becoming graciousness unlike my normal self, I realized what love is about. Not only did I get over his lack of discretion fairly quickly (quickly enough to suppress my first murderous urges), I was happy to see that he shared my taste for Coconut Custard Pie. The fact that he only took a sliver from my fourth and last piece was to his credit, and I love him all the more for it as well.