I have to be careful when I drink my morning coffee. G will have music playing; Native Flute, Oliver Schroer, Mary Anderson, Celtic Women, Hildegard Von Bingen, the Bach Suites, music to loosen dreams and help you slide into the day like a warm bath.
Sometimes I knit and watch the river, the sun through the cedars glittering up the water. Or I sip coffee, with Rose on my lap starring at the fire while the music takes me away.
A book can be fatal, the mood of it. Yesterday I could see the beginning of dementia in my character, a slow shift in his memory, his confidence to teach, grasp words and it broke my heart. I wasn’t expecting this and I had to close the book. I felt dark. G can sometimes do this to me, make me dark.
G tells me he is working an extra shift. I count nine twelve hour days. Oh God.
I was raised by Donna Reed (50’s housewife) who zipped upstairs at 5 o’clock, took out her pin curls, put on her face, slid into something provocatively lovely and handed her man a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, ice clinking as he walked through the door.
G works shift work, not many days, so the Donna Reed thing is sporadic. I have a meal ready, a fire in the grate and a tumbler full of gin. I brush my hair and touch up my makeup. It’s my game. I hate day shifts. The thought of anymore makes me insane and very dark.
G’s shift ends at 7 pm. He is home at 7:30. By this time I have had two drinks, eaten and I’ve only talked to the dog. My next move is jammies, a movie, bed or both. I’ve been faking the Donna Reed thing for too long. I tell G it has to stop; no more drink waiting, food on the table, a woman at your beck and call.
He doesn’t care. He’s been doing it for me.
I am so relieved I mix him a drink.