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Monday
Meg pulls her sweater more tightly around her and goes to see what the thermostat is set on. She frowns, bumps it from 20 to 21, and decides to make tea for good measure.
The teapot is meant to be right next to the mugs, on the bottom shelf in the cabinet next to the refrigerator. It's not. Because Alain, who didn't own a teapot before he married Meg and now technically has joint ownership of this one, keeps putting it away on the third shelf in the cabinet in the corner, next to the pitcher.
And Meg can see the logic in that -- holds liquid, has a spout, etc. -- but the problem is that Meg can't reach the third shelf in the cabinet in the corner, which makes it a fine place to store the pitcher (which they almost never use), but a rather less useful place to keep something she uses easily four times a week.
Meg drags a chair over from the table, climbs up onto it, and retrieves the teapot.
"Alain," she says, over dinner a few hours later, "could you please try to remember to put the teapot next to the mugs, when you're putting things away?"
"Did I put it up in the corner again?"
"Yeah."
"Sorry. Of course, ma belle," he says.
"Thank you."
Tuesday
"Are you cold?" Meg asks, on Tuesday evening.
"Hmmmm," Alain says, looking up from the bookshelf, which he's reading his way across, pulling books and stacking them at his feet.
"Cold," Meg repeats, getting up to look at the thermostat. "Are you cold?"
"No, I'm fine."
"I'm a little cold."
"Well, I know your toes were like ice last night."
"Sorry," Meg says, attention more on the thermostat than her husband. It's back on 20.
"Maybe you need a sweater," Alain suggests.
"I'm wearing a sweater," Meg says. "I'm going to turn this up a little," she says, setting the dial on 21.
"Fine," Alain says. "Yes, of course."
Wednesday
On Wednesday morning, Meg wakes up to find that Alain has left books all over the kitchen table, the coffee table, and the far end of the sofa.
"What's all this?" she asks.
"I was figuring some things out for classes this year. I think I've got it now. I'll put them away later."
"All right," Meg says. She opens the cabinet by the refrigerator, which (much to her complete lack of surprise) does not have a teapot in it. "Could you, um, get the teapot down for me?" she adds, pointing to the cabinet in the corner.
"Sorry," Alain says, setting the teapot on the counter next to the coffee maker. "Are you going to be late tonight?"
"Yeah, Wednesday night class."
"Can I meet you for dinner before?"
"I'd like that," Meg says.
"That Italian place you like, that I can never remember the name of, but that has the flags out front?"
"Rosa's, five o'clock."
Thursday
"Alain?" Meg calls from the doorway, coming in Thursday evening with grocery bags. "Hello?"
There's no answer. She sets the bags on the counter, turns the thermostat up to 21, puts the groceries away, and then looks around their still book-strewn apartment.
The thing is, it will probably start to bother Alain that three surfaces are covered in French literature some time around Easter. So Meg gathers them up and reshelves them carefully onto the bookcase, alphabetically by author (because while Alain doesn't mind having books scattered across the living room, when they're on a shelf, he wants them in order). She's just finishing when the front door opens.
"I got the groceries," Alain says, holding up his hands so she can see the bags.
"Oh," Meg says. "Um, so did I."
"You did? I thought you asked me to this morning."
"No, I said I was going to," Meg says.
Alain laughs. "I must have misheard you."
"Or I misspoke." She looks down into the bag he hands her. "Well, we both remembered the eggs."
"So we'll eat a lot of omelets. I -- ma belle, where are my books?"
"I put them away for you," Meg says.
"You put them . . . " Alain looks over at the bookshelf. "Meg, I wasn't ready to put them back."
"I thought you said you were finished."
"With figuring things out, yes, but not with writing down what I'd figured out."
"I'm sorry," Meg says. "I really thought you were finished."
"It's all right," Alain says. "I'll figure it out again later."
Friday
"I think it's cute when you wear socks to bed," Alain says, coming up behind her as she's changing into her nightclothes. He wraps an arm around her waist, and kisses the side of her neck.
"I never wear socks to bed," Meg says. She doesn't like sleeping in socks.
"I think it would be cute if you did," Alain amends.
"And when you say 'it would be cute,'" Meg says, turning to face him, "you mean 'you have very cold feet, ma belle'?"
"Let's just say your toes are a very surprising thing to have wind up against a man's ankles at two in the morning," Alain says, moving them across the room toward the bed.
"Well, you're the only man who's ever complained about it," Meg says, letting her hands come to rest on his shoulders. "Then again, you're the only man who's ever been a position to have a complaint."
"Good," he says, pulling her (and her still-in-socks feet) down onto the mattress.
"Alain, why, if you don't like how cold my feet are, do you keep turning the heat down?"
Alain reaches up to push her hair back from her face, and then runs his hand lightly down her back, along her spine. "Do you really want to have this conversation now, ma belle?"
"I guess it'll keep."
Meg pulls her sweater more tightly around her and goes to see what the thermostat is set on. She frowns, bumps it from 20 to 21, and decides to make tea for good measure.
The teapot is meant to be right next to the mugs, on the bottom shelf in the cabinet next to the refrigerator. It's not. Because Alain, who didn't own a teapot before he married Meg and now technically has joint ownership of this one, keeps putting it away on the third shelf in the cabinet in the corner, next to the pitcher.
And Meg can see the logic in that -- holds liquid, has a spout, etc. -- but the problem is that Meg can't reach the third shelf in the cabinet in the corner, which makes it a fine place to store the pitcher (which they almost never use), but a rather less useful place to keep something she uses easily four times a week.
Meg drags a chair over from the table, climbs up onto it, and retrieves the teapot.
"Alain," she says, over dinner a few hours later, "could you please try to remember to put the teapot next to the mugs, when you're putting things away?"
"Did I put it up in the corner again?"
"Yeah."
"Sorry. Of course, ma belle," he says.
"Thank you."
Tuesday
"Are you cold?" Meg asks, on Tuesday evening.
"Hmmmm," Alain says, looking up from the bookshelf, which he's reading his way across, pulling books and stacking them at his feet.
"Cold," Meg repeats, getting up to look at the thermostat. "Are you cold?"
"No, I'm fine."
"I'm a little cold."
"Well, I know your toes were like ice last night."
"Sorry," Meg says, attention more on the thermostat than her husband. It's back on 20.
"Maybe you need a sweater," Alain suggests.
"I'm wearing a sweater," Meg says. "I'm going to turn this up a little," she says, setting the dial on 21.
"Fine," Alain says. "Yes, of course."
Wednesday
On Wednesday morning, Meg wakes up to find that Alain has left books all over the kitchen table, the coffee table, and the far end of the sofa.
"What's all this?" she asks.
"I was figuring some things out for classes this year. I think I've got it now. I'll put them away later."
"All right," Meg says. She opens the cabinet by the refrigerator, which (much to her complete lack of surprise) does not have a teapot in it. "Could you, um, get the teapot down for me?" she adds, pointing to the cabinet in the corner.
"Sorry," Alain says, setting the teapot on the counter next to the coffee maker. "Are you going to be late tonight?"
"Yeah, Wednesday night class."
"Can I meet you for dinner before?"
"I'd like that," Meg says.
"That Italian place you like, that I can never remember the name of, but that has the flags out front?"
"Rosa's, five o'clock."
Thursday
"Alain?" Meg calls from the doorway, coming in Thursday evening with grocery bags. "Hello?"
There's no answer. She sets the bags on the counter, turns the thermostat up to 21, puts the groceries away, and then looks around their still book-strewn apartment.
The thing is, it will probably start to bother Alain that three surfaces are covered in French literature some time around Easter. So Meg gathers them up and reshelves them carefully onto the bookcase, alphabetically by author (because while Alain doesn't mind having books scattered across the living room, when they're on a shelf, he wants them in order). She's just finishing when the front door opens.
"I got the groceries," Alain says, holding up his hands so she can see the bags.
"Oh," Meg says. "Um, so did I."
"You did? I thought you asked me to this morning."
"No, I said I was going to," Meg says.
Alain laughs. "I must have misheard you."
"Or I misspoke." She looks down into the bag he hands her. "Well, we both remembered the eggs."
"So we'll eat a lot of omelets. I -- ma belle, where are my books?"
"I put them away for you," Meg says.
"You put them . . . " Alain looks over at the bookshelf. "Meg, I wasn't ready to put them back."
"I thought you said you were finished."
"With figuring things out, yes, but not with writing down what I'd figured out."
"I'm sorry," Meg says. "I really thought you were finished."
"It's all right," Alain says. "I'll figure it out again later."
Friday
"I think it's cute when you wear socks to bed," Alain says, coming up behind her as she's changing into her nightclothes. He wraps an arm around her waist, and kisses the side of her neck.
"I never wear socks to bed," Meg says. She doesn't like sleeping in socks.
"I think it would be cute if you did," Alain amends.
"And when you say 'it would be cute,'" Meg says, turning to face him, "you mean 'you have very cold feet, ma belle'?"
"Let's just say your toes are a very surprising thing to have wind up against a man's ankles at two in the morning," Alain says, moving them across the room toward the bed.
"Well, you're the only man who's ever complained about it," Meg says, letting her hands come to rest on his shoulders. "Then again, you're the only man who's ever been a position to have a complaint."
"Good," he says, pulling her (and her still-in-socks feet) down onto the mattress.
"Alain, why, if you don't like how cold my feet are, do you keep turning the heat down?"
Alain reaches up to push her hair back from her face, and then runs his hand lightly down her back, along her spine. "Do you really want to have this conversation now, ma belle?"
"I guess it'll keep."
