The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

Whenever she spots her husband hauling things out of cupboards with a sort of painful determination, she wants to cry.

“What are you doing?

“Oh, you’ll see when you come out here?”

She buries her head in the covers and sighs heavily. But the masochist in her can’t resist. She has to see the damage. She scoots around the sleeping baby and slides out of bed.

Oh, this line is a beauty. Organized. Stalwart. Missional even. Like if these ants were traveling evangelists…they have forged their way into the food cupboard, surrounding the agave, the honey, the chili covered mango slices…

“Bastards!” She grabs the spray bottle and douses them with vinegar. There’s something satisfying about stopping them in their tracks.

“Is everyone in this complex waking up to a line of ants?”

“Probably.

“Probably NOT.” She’s always had a hunch they suffer the worst.

“I found the hole,” he yells from the hall closet.

“Perfect.”

“Checkmate, Bastards.” He emerges from the closet with a big grin.

“How can you be so cheery?”

“Cause I’m trying to see the good in this…and I love you…bibliothèque, il fait brouillard mon petit fromage.”

She can’t help but laugh. His French vocabulary is seriously lacking, but the accent is good. He should have been the actor.

“Did I mention that I hate the ants?”

“You might have…a long time ago. I can’t remember. Why don’t you go have a shower. Levez-vous mon tête!”

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Um…it’s the language of love, Beauty.”