A Life With You

by Roy Miller

  Thirty Seven

  It's Sunday afternoon and there's been a Roast in the crockpot since morning. The house smells the same way my grandma's house used to smell when we would go over there for dinner. My mom cooked the same way her mom did, and I learned those things myself over the years. We take turns cooking so we can both try the recipes of our families, an idea you proposed the first time you cooked for me when we started dating. While we wait for the Roast you help me peel potatoes, but not all the way, since you like a little bit of skin left on, same as me. Once they're added we go back to our spot on the living room floor where we're digging through pictures. Yours are piled on one side and mine are piled on the other. I look at the blank space in between and you tell me that someday, we'll fill the space with pictures of our own family. Eventually the timer dings in the kitchen and I'm reminded of the 'bun in the oven' joke.

  Thirty Eight

  Part of the way through January we have another storm that dumps a good amount of snow on us. After dinner I catch you staring out the window, watching the neighbor kids throw snowballs at each other, and when I walk into the living room you tell me you want to build a snowman. I say we can do one better and to go get dressed. Outside, I grab the recycle bin and start filling it up. You help. The piles of snow at the ends of driveways reminds me of playing King of the Mountain in the grocery store parking lot as a kid. My brother never let me win, but I played anyway. Ten minutes later there's something resembling a chair, and I tell you to sit down. You watch as I make another one and then we sit side by side in our snow recliners. You lean over with a finger pointed at the two kids on the left across the street, the smaller ones, then tell me you got five bucks on them pulling the upset. I pull off my glove and say I'll take that action, with a handshake to seal the deal.

  Thirty Nine

  A day at the beach turns into a rough night at home. I told you that getting too much sun, even with sunscreen on, would end up biting you. You don't reapply like you should. I wait on the couch until you get out of the shower. It takes you a while because of the pain, the luke warm water stinging at your back. You come out undressed, robe in one hand and lotion in the other. I sit behind you and squeeze some of the unscented liquid into my hand, rub them together to warm it, then start by massaging small circles onto your shoulder blades. Your head dips a little and your shoulders slump with the release of a breath. A breeze from the patio door brings in the smell of hamburgers on a grill and a dog's bark. When I'm finished with your back you put your robe on and step out onto the deck. The sky is beginning to shade pink with the sunset and it reminds you of the color of your mother's slippers. They had cat faces on them. I move up behind you and wrap my arms around your waist, and you ask me when we started getting old.

  Forty

  Your sister is coming to town, and instead of having her pay money to stay in a hotel, you say that she should stay with us. You ask me if it's okay, and I tell you that your family is my family and I'd love to have her stay with us. I help you set up the guest bedroom by washing the bedding so it's fresh, and making sure all the surfaces are dusted. You usually do a good job at that anyway, since you know I'm horribly allergic to dust. Your sister arrives a couple days later and I take her bags to her room, giving you two time to hug it out in the doorway. She says the house smells like oatmeal raisin cookies and I smile, remembering the look on your face when you told me that that would be the first thing she'd notice. You were right, as usual. Your sister follows you to the living room so you two can begin discussing her trip, and I head to the kitchen to load up the nice serving tray your mom got us as a housewarming gift with cookies. It thunders and through the window over the sink I see a squirrel take off from the porch into the bushes. Your sister sighs with relief at arriving before the rain.

  Forty One

  I'm in the kitchen rinsing the dishes off to put them in the dishwasher when you come in and toss your ice cream spoon into a soaking pot. The water splashes and soap bubbles hit me in the face. You giggle a little and step back, but before you can get around the corner I turn around and shoot you with the sprayer attached to the sink. You let out a scream and dash toward the bedroom, coming back minutes later with a squirt gun filled with cold water. We each got one from your niece's birthday party the year before and you decided to keep them in case we ever got roped into a battle with the kids next door. The sink drains with a pull of the plug, but I keep the sprayer in my hand. I haven't respond to your shot so you get brave, coming up behind me a little closer. I turn around and manage to grab one of your belt loops with the tip of my finger before you can get away, laughing while I spray the hose down your shirt. You say it's unfair that I hold you in place, and I say it's unfair that my gun is stationary and yours isn't.

  Forty Two

  One of the trees in the side yard has leaves that change to the same color as your hair every Fall. At the end, anyway. They start as a brilliant red, then slowly fade to a dark brown, with hints of the red visible in the correct sunlight. I noticed your hair looks red when we're sitting by the window. You tell me there's quite a few redheads in your family, but you must have gotten your color from your dad. The tree is short and very thin, but has a surprising amount of leaves on it. I remember when you first pointed it out to me, saying that that tree must have felt like it needed to try a little harder than the rest, since it was smaller and not as thick. I thought the same thing when it came to you; not in size and shape, but in the feeling that someone else of a better standing would be able to keep you more easily than I. When I first voiced this opinion you rolled your eyes and told me to shut up, because either way, your secret boyfriend at work was the one you were really in love with. I pretend to be macho and demand to know his name, and when I get up and start looking for the car keys you toss your head back in laughter.

  Forty Three

  We're on the couch in the living room together, flipping through channels when you stop at the Food Network. I'm sitting on the end cap and you're lying down with your head on my thigh. The chef on TV is making a pulled pork eggs benedict with hollandaise sauce, and you watch with interest as she puts the dish together very carefully. It makes me happy to see that you're not an exception when it comes to the unwritten but widely accepted rule that everyone loves the Food Network. I ask if that's something you'd like to try to make sometime and you nod your head wordlessly. I make a note of all the ingredients in my phone and say I'll pick them up after work tomorrow, and you adjust the blanket over your shoulders. I twirl strands of your hair around my index finger while the chef finishes up her presentation, but before the next show starts you're sleeping soundly, your shoulders moving ever so slightly with deep, even breaths.

  Forty Four

  Daylight Savings Time demands that we move the clocks forward an hour, meaning we'll lose a little bit of sleep for the next work day. I get wrapped up watching something on the Discovery channel and forget to change the alarm clock in our bedroom, so when the next morning comes we're both in for a surprise. The alarm goes off and we both get up as usual, gliding through our morning routine at his and her sinks. I go into the kitchen and start getting coffee ready. Half of the pot is brewed when you come racing around the corner, almost falling over in your attempt to put your shoes on while walking. You tell me you checked your phone and noticed the time, tipping you off to my absent-minded flub from last night. Realizing we're both already late I tell you to slow down a bit and at least let me put some coffee in a to-go cup for you. You sit on the edge of the counter and pull me into your arms, telling me that you heard someone say once that if you're already late, you might as well take your time since you'll be in trouble either way. I nestle into the side of your neck and smell your perfume; it's the one I bought you for Christmas the year I proposed.

  Forty Five

  During a Saturday afternoon game, you tell me that you've never been to a real sporting event before. I ask you if you'd be interested in going to one, and you say you've
always wanted to tailgate like they do in the commercials for charcoal or barbecue sauce. I check the team schedules and compare them to our work schedules, then order tickets to a home game for a few weeks away. The morning of, you help me pack up the car and we hit the highway. An hour and a half later we get near the stadium and stop by a grocery store to grab our items. The game doesn't start for three hours, so we have plenty of time to set up the portable grill and see who we can meet. It's cold but luckily not windy, puffs of breath gravitating together and lingering over the parking lot as a man-made cloud. After parking you tell me the people by the truck next to us look drunk already and it's barely ten in the morning. I smile with the knowledge that it's going to get a lot worse before we even walk into the stadium.

  Forty Six

  We both get home around the same time, and neither of us feel like cooking. You suggest we go somewhere that has appetizers, since you've been craving mozzarella sticks, and I grab the keys. Our server is an exceptionally tall woman that I at first think is oddly proportioned, but realize quickly is actually pregnant. After she takes our drink orders you say that one of your coworkers recently had a baby, and all she could talk about through her pregnancy was girl scout cookies. I remember seeing a local business sign saying that the scouts would be setting up tents to sell their wares starting at the beginning of the week, so once we eat and vacate the restaurant I take the longer way home to go by that area. There are several girls running around in the grass on the corner, with one of the older women looking as if she was reminding them not to go too close to the road. The girls didn't look much older than a friend of mine was when he was struck by a car and killed, not even reaching double digits first. Sometimes I wonder if I envy him for not having to experience the world as it is now, but when I look over at you and see the way your eyes shine in the rapidly diminishing sunlight, I feel bad for him never getting to experience the harmonic melding of souls. Or the way Thin Mints taste when they've been in the freezer.

  (RIP E.M.Y.)

  Forty Seven

  While we're sitting on the couch watching late night TV you get up to get something to drink, but as soon as you stand you stumble a little and grab your thigh. I ask what happened and you explain how there's a dip in the couch that pinches your leg if you sit in one spot for too long, so I suggest we look at new furniture. After work on Friday we drive to the next town and stop at the main furniture store by the mall. An overzealous salesman hops on us right away, swooping in like a bird of prey before we're even able to get our bearings on the floor. He asks what we're looking for and you say just an easy two piece living room set, and he extends a hand to guide us in the right direction. We spend about a half hour trying out different pieces until we settle on one we both can live with, which includes an ottoman that you quickly claim as your spot. We step up to the front to do paperwork and the salesman's eyes are wide like this deal is a high for him. You glance at me and try not to laugh, and I shake my head wondering what type of hobbies he has outside of his work.

  Forty Eight

  With months of planning finally coming to fruition, we embark on our weekend getaway. It's been a long time since we've gotten out into nature so you suggest we go back to the cabin for a few days. The weather has been sunny but not too hot, perfect to lay by the water and watch the kids across the lake swim and attack each other with pool noodles. We each drive half way, switching positions after we stop and get deep fried ravioli for lunch at a hole in the wall diner. The first night is spent unpacking and getting the place in order, and the next morning we get to appreciate our work by sleeping in. Sun pokes through the curtains and illuminates the shape of your hips under the bright white sheets. The side of the blinds with the pull string scatters the sun into what look like pearls on your skin, only allowing little beams of light through the holes. Leaves rustle in the wind and bring the smell of fresh water and pine trees. You roll over and look up at me with renewed brightness in your eyes, and I tell you that you always have the best ideas.

  Forty Nine

  A nighttime excursion to a coffee shop to get fancy hot chocolate and dessert leads into an interesting ride home. It starts snowing while we're inside, the flakes falling thick and fast while we hold hands and watch out the main window. Pale yellow from streetlights illuminates the flurry of white, and you say the effect reminds you of the old Windows 98 space screensaver. The reference makes me smile. Our server, a very tiny woman with jet black hair down to her waist, stops by and asks if we need anything. You kindly shake your head and I do the same, then she walks away and puts her hands in her back pockets. The move strikes me as odd since I don't think anyone who is in an eatery environment wants to see an employee with their hands on their butt. You wrap the other half of your brownie in a napkin and put it in your purse, and we head back out to the car. A significant amount of snow has fallen and the roads are horrible. First thing out of the parking lot, a car moving too fast for its size loses control and skids out in front of us. Their front bumper clips a telephone pole, but not hard enough to take it down. We both get out to see if the passengers are alright, but the only person inside is a rough looking older man. He waves us off after checking out his bumper, confident that it was just a slight overcorrection, then gets back in and takes off without another word. His cloud of breath smelled faintly of single malt.

  Fifty

  Your mother calls to tell you that your grandparents are having their sixty fifth wedding anniversary celebration at the gathering hall of their retirement community. Seeing as my grandparents have been passed for some time, you tell me that it's okay if I don't want to go, but I assure you that I would love to accompany you and see your folks. The drive is less than two hours and we arrive about the same time as everyone else. A lot of elderly people, some couples and some alone, file into the hall one after the other. A Johnny Paycheck cassette tape plays through an old stereo, the same kind that I would have been likely to find in my grandpa's garage. Your mom is standing at the head table next to your grandma, welcoming each guest as they enter the door. Your grandpa and some of his war buddies are going over a big poster board collage of pictures. We walk in and your mom breaks away from the table to come over and talk to you privately. I leave you to it, my hand lingering on the small of your back for a second as I walk toward the refreshment table. A solemn looking gentleman with a Vietnam hat and a Pabst Blue Ribbon in his hand sits by himself, staring at a collection of license plates hanging above the drinks. His jacket is old and says GM on the breast, and it makes me wonder if he might have worked with my grandpa at the plant when he was younger.

  Fifty One

  Over the summer some of your coworkers thought it would be fun to get everyone and their families together and go in on a theme park group discount. We chip in our part and wait a few weeks, with the weekend of the trip falling towards the end of July. The season has favored sun more than rain, creating more cracks in the sidewalks from extreme temperature and little precipitation. Our convoy arrives at the park and meets up by the front gate, carefully examining the large posters outlining the dangers of heat stroke and reminding us to stay hydrated. Tough to do when a single bottle of water is ten dollars. All in all there's twelve of us, including five kids around the ages of nine to twelve. We pass by the teacups and you tell me a story from your first date at the fair, where you managed to throw up blue cotton candy on his khaki pants. You were embarrassed and he seemed to lose interest shortly after. Your friends wrote him off and when he tried to talk to you again a couple weeks later, they stonewalled him and let you get away. To our left a father wins his daughter an overstuffed crocodile with a goofy grin. I tell you that I'll try to be a better date, and if you end up throwing up on me I have extra pants in the car.

  Fifty Two

  I was sick for a few days and unfortunately, you ended up catching the same thing as I was getting over it. We both have allergies and the changing of seasons is always bound to catch one, if not both of us, o
ff guard. I use a few sick days and take the weekend off to help care for you, but you say you wish I would have just went to work instead. It's hard not to take it personally, but I know that you don't feel well and I don't hold it against you. I like to be by myself too when I don't feel good. You spend most of the time sleeping and when I try to get you to eat, you repeatedly decline. At the end of the second day I head out to the store and get you cough medicine and lozenges, which you take wordlessly back to the bedroom. You stop in the doorway and turn around, but you cough when you try to get my attention. I look up from the counter and you smile weakly, your own way of telling me that you haven't gone anywhere, and I wink back with a smirk. You melt into the darkness, smile still on your face, and before I can finish an episode of Cops the coughing subsides and I know you're sleeping peacefully again.