The house was quiet, maybe too quiet, on a pleasant Saturday afternoon. Then the wife yelled from the hallway, “Ooh, sorry honey.” Then you can fix the bathroom door.
She had inquired before. For weeks, or maybe even longer, the door had been stuck. It would open and close at strange angles and not all the way. Her spouse, who was lying on the couch, didn’t even look up.
He asked, “Do I look like a carpenter?” He chuckled and said it wasn’t a big deal, as he always does. He took his keys and left. He might have gone to the hardware store or someplace else that didn’t entail fixing a door.
When he came back a few hours later, things were different. The garden, which used to be unkempt and half-wild, was now neat and tidy. The flower gardens look like they were on a show about home improvement, and there are no more weeds.
The paths are clear. He came inside and saw that the door to the bathroom had been fixed. It no longer squeaked or got stuck. It opened quickly and gently, as if it had never been broken before.
He blinked in surprise and yelled, “Wow!” I knew my wife could do this on her own…
His wife was seated at the kitchen table, contentedly drinking tea. She said, “No, it wasn’t me.”
The spouse made a face. “Who fixed everything then?”
“Our neighbor,” she said immediately away, and then she went back to reading the magazine.
His face got tense. “The neighbor?” Did you tell him to do it? What was his fee?
She looked up, but it was impossible to determine what her expression said. “He didn’t want any cash.” He only gave me two choices: sex or bread.
Stop talking.
The husband’s lips fell a little. “I hope you gave him bread,” he said, 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 cold, measured wit with a hint of something cutting behind it.
The spouse stood there for a long time, shocked, attempting to figure out what had just happened. He wasn’t sure if he should laugh, fight, or go to the neighbor’s house.
But one thing was clear: the next time his wife asks him to help out, he’ll get the toolbox, even though he’s not a carpenter.
