My husband and I are in diametric opposition to quite a lot. Sometimes we surprise each other and ourselves. *Spoiler alert- do not buy Marvin push out windows if you live in an area of high wind velocity.
Those windows were the only thing I begged for in this building. I didn’t care for cabinetry, cut corners at every opportunity, pared it down to the quick. The windows make the apartment endurable, oh yeah the heat pump is the BOMB, but the windows make the habitat habitable.
You never know how love will manifest. You can’t call it. Last week after we scared Laila the boxer dawg (not ours, one of the “boys'”), who sometimes is very warm in the summer heat and becomes a hotdawg, she was so disturbed by the yelling that she hid under my husband’s chair in my office, cringing thinking confused, upset dawg thoughts, “Why are they yelling at each other? Whose side should I be on? He gets me ice cream and burgers but she is so delightfully difficult…I love when she wraps her arms around me in the morning and tells me ‘Laila, I love you!’ Jesus why do they yell? None of this shit is important.” We were sitting in my office late Friday evening just talking about work; the wind picked up, like it always does now that the Apocalypse is looming (or so a Pentacostal woman told me with anticipatory lust). We heard a big crash. I was afraid something had exploded- the generator, the heat pump, the washing machine perhaps? We heard another crash. It was shocking and scary. My husband tore off up the stairs to our apartment.
I could hear him yelling up here. It scared me. I did not run exactly but I did move pretty fast for an old girl. I was afraid the windows had been ripped off their hinges by the wind and it was more than my husband could reconcile. The wind blew with such force that it popped the screens open, which knocked the plants on the windowsills on to the floor, smashing heavy, glazed clay, plant pots to smithereens.
My husband was enraged. He wanted to smash every motherfuckingwindowoutathisgoddamn building. I said, “Don’t worry, Honey. It’s okay. I’ll clean it up and we’ll get some new pots and different plants.” He left to close the 1st floor windows, still disgruntled.
After we had supper, he told me, “It just made me so fucking mad. I thought, ‘She never asks for anything, are plants on the fucking windowsill too much to ask?'”
I told him a few days later in an entirely different context, “I couldn’t bear to wake up to a world without you in it.”