The house was quiet on a pleasant Saturday afternoon, maybe too quiet, until the wife yelled from the hallway, “Ooh, sorry honey.” Then fix the bathroom door. She had already asked.
For weeks, or maybe even longer, the door had been sticking. It would open at strange angles and not close all the way. But her spouse, who was lying on the couch, didn’t even look up.
He said, “Do I look like a carpenter?” He laughed and said “no” in his typical dry way. He took his keys and left. He might have gone to the hardware store or someplace else that didn’t require fixing a door.
When he arrived back a few hours later, things were different. The garden used to be unkempt and half-wild, but now it looked nice. There are no more weeds in the flower gardens, and they look like they were on a weekend makeover program.
The pathways are neat. He came in and saw that the restroom door had been fixed. It didn’t make any noise or get stuck anymore. It opened quickly and gently, as if it had never been broken.
He blinked in surprise and yelled, “Wow!” I knew my wife could do this on her own…
His wife was seated at the table in the kitchen, cheerfully drinking tea, when she said, “No, it wasn’t me.”
The partner frowned. “Who took care of everything then?”
She said right away, “Our neighbor,” and then she kept reading the magazine.
His face got tense. “The neighbor? Did you tell him to do it? How much did he want?
She looked up, but it was impossible to discern what her face was saying. “He didn’t want any money.” He only gave me two choices: have sex or get bread.
Stop talking.
The husband’s lips fell a little. “I hope you gave him bread,” he said next, his voice a mix of uncertainty and cautious hope.
She raised an eyebrow and leaned in a little. Then she said, as dry as ever, “Do I look like a bakery?”
There it was: not rage, nor a confession, but calm, calculated wit with a hint of something sharp behind it. The spouse remained there for a long time, shocked, trying to make sense of what had just transpired.
He didn’t know if he should laugh, become angry, or go to the neighbor’s house. But one thing was clear: the next time his wife asks him to help out around the house, he’ll get the toolbox, even if he’s not a carpenter.