Fur & Zest

Cara stares at the ceiling fan. Narrows in on the furry edges of the blades where dust has accumulated. When was the last time that thing was turned on? At least four fans in the house and they’re used what… a dozen times per year? Do a few peak summer days warrant such dust collecting contraptions? Oh what she wouldn’t give to be hot right now. To be in a slip dress and flip flops, watching the sunset on a palm lined beach, needing a fan.

Grant, clearly focused on other physical matters, begins his sprinting thrusts home. Cara squints, worried that dust fur might fall into her eyes. There’s still satisfaction, like... munching on quality cashews when you’re peckish. He gives a final heave and collapses on top of her. Her fingers swirl a few gentle, loving strokes up and down his spine before giving him the “ok..off” signal with her hips. They lay there a while, a couple minutes perhaps, before puttering in the garage becomes more enticing to Grant than afternoon cuddles.

Passion wanes after 18 years of marriage, a couple of kids, a family business, and a year of lockdown. It’s fortunate they still like eachother, it’s admirable they still tend eachothers’ dwindling carnal impulses. It’s not that they’re way old. Just just way intimate… with every detail. The gamut from unpleasant ‘habits’ to endearing quirks has been run. Weaknesses exposed; perfections hailed.

She lies in bed a little longer. Lies. She is not “great” like she says when people ask how she’s doing. Grateful? Sure. Regretful? Not particularly. But where’s the zest in life? Elizabth Gilbert’s advice that “nothing good comes from horizontal thinking” pops in her head. What if she went on a trip like Liz. She’s already meditated in India and she met Grant in Indonesia. Does Italy have her zest? Whatever. In one swift motion, Cara hurls herself to vertical. How bout some caffeine.

She puts on some silk palazzo pants and a sleeveless tank - a fuck you to the March snow storm. She grabs a dry pine log from the 8 foot stack right outside the front door (one of Grant’s love languages) and feeds the hungry fire. By the time she’s 3 sips into her tea, the fire’s roarin’ and she’s rarin to go. Let’s clean something.

She puts on a chill beats compilations and waters her copious houseplants who seem to love Grant’s exceptional wood. Next, to the overflowing tupperware drawer. She harvests all of the lids that don’t have a bottom; clears the fridge of expired condiments; and runs a micro-fibre cloth on the edge of the baseboards. Baseboards: a lazy way out of bad craftsmanship. En route to the ceiling fan in the bedroom she gets sidetracked by the slightly ajar dresser drawer. A rather large dresser they purchased a few years back because Grant was complaining about not having enough closet space. It didn’t take long for the drawers to be full of everything from belts, books, batteries, too small swimtrunks (in case one day), ear plugs, a flashlight, prescriptions, a baseball bat (for intruders), vaseline, sticky notes, a drone (expensive but broken); a myriad of miscellaneous.

Over the years Grant and Cara have outlined several man zones: the garage, the basement, the office, and these drawers. Places she avoids organizing and where Grant can be he’s unbridled, tinkering self. The disarray of these zones never ceases to astound her. Maybe she’ll just give it a quick tidy… (her love language).

She starts piles: garbage, recycling, and giveaway. A sketch of a house they might build one day - keeper. A newspaper article on how to attract more bees to your garden- recycling. An empty razor box with spare doo-hickey components - hmm donate? An outrageous photo radar ticket he never told her about - fucker. Drone warranty - check on it. She finds a birthday card from her to him from his 30th birthday. One of the sappy ones they used to write eachother in really small font and still ran out of room trying to capture their love in words - his call. Next an empty envelope from a utility company with a looooong string of characters followed by 5 BTC - recycling. And oooouh! A lottery ticket! It’s not like Grant to buy a lottery ticket. His mom must have sent it in a care package. Let’s have a look.

Laptop open. Tap, tap, tap. Sip. Enter date. Sip. Check some numbers. HELLO. Check more numbers. Holy Shit!!!. Check all the numbers again. NOO WAY!!! And again. $20,000!!!!!!

She runs out to the garage, barefoot in summer clothes. Shucks. Car is gone. She runs back inside… leaving snow tracks in the hall as she hunts for her phone. She’s drowning in enthusiasm. She wants Grant to feel what she’s feeling. She wants to give this to him. She wants to share this with him. She dials him. Takes a deep breath. And then hangs up before he answers.

This kind of news needs eye contact.

She goes to her night table. Takes out her little black book. She used to go through a couple of these a year, writing down goals, dreams, doodles, poems. This one has but a few uninspired entries from almost two years ago. She rips those out and puts them and the rest of the recycling into the fire. She sits down in front of the fire, feeling very zesty indeed, puts her pen to the center of the new first page and writes a HUGE $20,000.