Another one bites the tile

Last night I stayed up too late downloading free books on Pat’s kindle – stuff he won’t ever read, but THEY WERE FREE! And classics like Poe and Bleak House and The Wizard of Oz. I get a little overzealous about¬†acquiring¬†books – I know every time we have moved, I stupidly put all the books in one box (although the idea still makes sense to me – books with books) but the box always ends up being 500lbs and Pat has to pick it up because if I tried I would snap ever fiber in my body. He says when we move next I have to get rid of some. I’ll get rid of 5 and pack all my books in the same box again and make him lift it into the van.

Last night, too, I was almost asleep and shot up to the sound of shattering glass. Pat was still downstairs. It was late – maybe 12:30. Tula shot up too, she was sleeping right next to me and stared through the walls to see what was happening. There was no way we were getting up and besides I already knew what it was and who it was. Pat is not the most coordinated person. I always joke that when we have babies, he won’t be able to hold them because he’ll drop them. And I think our floors are cursed. In the TV room, we’ve managed to break about 12 glasses, bottles, mugs. We are still finding glass coming in tides. The last time I broke a bottle, I was coming inside from the yard, had it draped in my fingers and it bumped into the cat scratcher and slow-motion hurled itself onto the tile. They don’t just break, they shatter. There are certain sounds you just know: kissing, the cat in litter, coffee grinder, radiators. Growing up, I couldn’t sleep without the sound of our house creaking in summer – its bones cooling and expanding.

Pat must have been pissed, but he’s a very relaxed man. I could hear him sweeping up the shards, their claws dragging against the tile. I hope he vacuums, I thought. He better vacuum. And he did, coming upstairs and closing our door first because he thought I was sleeping. I’ve learned to not get too attached to breakable objects. But I love witnessing the things he does when he thinks I’m sleeping – blocking out noise, running fingers through my hair or over my stomach, tip-toeing through the dark so the light won’t wake me up. These things I know are real and without affirmation. It’s forgivable, all the broken glass.

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