A Relationship

They seemed to clash a lot nowadays.

Should I go or should I stay, he wondered, like a chorus playing over and over, an earworm burrowing deeper all day long. As if it might bore a hole through to the other side of his brain, like mining through the earth to get to China in his younger days.

He’d never experienced so much angst over the relationship before. Maybe it was old age?

Should I stay or should I go?

He could still hear the words from this morning: I may be home for dinner. If I do come back in time, I’ll be hungry. Do you think you could make something for me?

Not even a humorous smile.

And it wasn’t as if he’d had an easy day. Sure, he was the stay-at-home half in this relationship, but watching the house took effort. He’d managed a power nap or two, but the weight of securing the place, making sure it was a safe place to come back to at the end of the day, meant such great responsibility.

And was that a joke or what? Cook something. He couldn’t ever boil water. Cook something? That was a bone of contention right there. Even the microwave was a mystery to him.

He looked over in the corner. He’d been sick again and hadn’t been able to make it through the door in time. But even if he could clean it up . . .

The passive-aggressive behavior was a two-way street. “If I do come back in time.” “Cook something.” The mind behind those words knew they could cut like a knife.

Just then he heard the car pull into the driveway. Well, this would be another moment of truth.

Should I stay or should I go?

He sat watching the door.

“Well,” she said, walking in, “I’m hungry, you know, and I don’t smell any — ”

She walked over to the corner. “Oh no, have you been sick again? Oh my.”

He remained sitting, only his eyes following her.

Heading into the kitchen, she returned with a spray bottle and a roll of paper towels.

He watched her get down on her knees and proceed to wipe up the mess. This time there was not a word of anger. Maybe it was his age. She knew he was getting up there.

Really, for the most part, she was a kind woman. Always had been. But the words. Well, he thought, maybe a better word would be frustration. Not anger.

She was only human after all. If he had to clean up after her all the time . . .

Coming over to him, she sat down and grabbed him by his long floppy ears.

“I’m so sorry when I get angry with you, little guy. I know you’re getting old, and I’m sorry you get sick to your tummy nowadays.”

Kissing him on the head, she began to stroke his back. “The doctor said there was nothing wrong other than old age, my little buddy. I know I should be more patient with you. Like when you used to dig up the yard. I used to laugh about that, watch you having so much fun. I guess I’m getting old, too. Crochety in my old age. I’m so sorry.”

She kissed him again and patted his head.

“Okay,” she said, standing up again. “Come on, sweetie, let’s get you some dinner.”

He followed her into the kitchen, watched her toss the mess into the trash, and then put away the paper towels and spray bottle.

“So, my little man, what should we have tonight?” she asked, turning to him and smiling.

I think I’ll stay, he thought.