It was a typical Sunday morning. The sun was not quite up over the houses in the neighbourhood, but the Carpenter was wide awake, having already consumed the first pot of coffee for the day.
He let me sleep in, but not because he cares that I get my rest. No, he let me sleep so he could enjoy the silence with his mistress (she’s an iPad, but their affair is all-consuming).
The two sit at the kitchen table together. She is nestled in his strong hands, holding his undivided attention. She offers him every sports score for every team he follows in any sport he wishes. She is a know it all. Together they watch game highlights, read headlines, laugh at stupid video clips and then, after they check the weather forecast, they head into battle united against imaginary villains.
She never speaks a word. The Carpenter loves her.
Cue the Darth Vader theme music. I emerge through the doorway to the kitchen looking like a ravishing goddess of morning (assuming a ravishing goddess of morning has bed-head and a fluffy pink bathrobe that screams “you want this, you know it”).
The Carpenter and his mistress are oblivious. Fine. Whatever. Two can play at this game. Coffee mug in hand, I head to the sofa and fire up my laptop to find my own news headlines of the day. And that’s when I stumble upon a marriage advice column written by a man who has survived a vicious divorce and wants other men to learn from his mistakes. This oughta be good.
Turns out it was good. So good that I did that thing that no man enjoys: I interrupted the Carpenter’s solitude. That’s right, I spoke. Worse, I insisted he listen.
Basically the article said that a husband should never take his wife for granted nor be lazy in his love. Pay attention to your woman, I emphasized. Share your feelings and be open. And don’t be stupid.
The Carpenter did not look up, even at the word “stupid.” Then I got to the part that read: “When you asked her to marry you, you promised … (to) own her heart.”
I stopped abruptly. The Carpenter looked up, with a wry smile.
“Own my heart? What am I, real estate?” I said, angrily. “Who is this moron to suggest that you own any part of me? What is this, the dark ages? Sure, you have a place there, but I own that organ outright.”
I slammed my laptop shut. The Carpenter smiled smugly, looking down at his silent mistress, the one he owns outright, with her passive flat screen and battery-life. Oh sure, she’s perfect, but she is no ravishing goddess of morning.
Own my heart. Hmph. As if. And that’s when the Carpenter got up to make a second pot of coffee.