SquarePeg Books

I love him. No, really. I do.

Sometimes.

Just not when he’s irritating me.

Like today.

He has a day off and I’m trying to work on something.

I’m trying to work on a writing something. It’s a fight scene. This isn’t something you can just rough out and heavily edit later to make it fit. You can tweak it later, but you’re either committed as you write it or it comes out like shit.

I’m eyebrows deep. I can feel the blows.  The emotional tension feels right. My headphones are punching out the right music to really sink into the scene. The flow is beginning to carry me through the scene. I can barely type fast enough to keep up with the sequence.

Then there’s a hand on my shoulder.  He needs my help with something. Find item X.

I find it in the fridge, behind the yogurt. Seriously, if you’re going to look for something, be willing to move things around to see behind them.

Back to my desk, re-read what I’ve written from build-up to where I left off. Back in the groove.

Thirty minutes later, there’s that hand again – can I pack Sara’s dance bag for him since he’s taking her to class after school?

Get it out of the way. Don’t be pissy, he doesn’t normally take her, so he doesn’t know where her dance clothes are. Grumblegripepack It’s done. Back to the computer.

Twenty minutes later, and the hand grips my shoulder.

Do I want to go out for lunch?

My shoulders are tight. We don’t often get a lot of time, just the two of us. The kids are at school and he’s off work and the only chores that need to be addressed are the daily load of laundry. I don’t want to go to lunch. I need to go to lunch. It’s important that I go to lunch. He’s my husband. We should go to lunch every now and again with children. Lunch is not what I want to be doing right now. Lunch is what I have to do right now.

Lunch is done. I’m back at my desk.

Forty minutes after that, another hand.

Do I know what happened to Item A?

Twenty-seven minutes, and the hand appears again.  My eye twitches.

Have I seen his hoodie in the laundry? Have I done that load of laundry, yet?

A smaller hand. My son. The husband dropped him off at home before continuing on with Sara to her dance class.

Daniel doesn’t feel so good. He’s felt crummy at school all day. He has a fever.

A larger hand. When did he get home? I only just sat down at my desk.

Can I go over the kids’ math homework? He’s not up to it.

AAAAAAAUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! I WILL CUT YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have the HowDunIt Series Book of Poisons and cast iron as a blunt-force trauma weapon. I can totally do it.

The hand touches my shoulder.

It’s time to tuck the kids into bed.

I look at the half-finished scene on the screen, mocking me. Thoughts of murder dance like sugarplums in my head.

The cast iron would be so satisfying. Whackwhackwhack!

He’ll be working tomorrow.  I promise the fight scene I will return.