Friday night we watch Bond blow up stuff. He notices the holes and fire. I notice the roof chase is ripped off, sorry, borrowed, sorry, no, stolen, off my favorite writer.
Saturday afternoon we watch Bedlam football at the wine bar. I spend the better part of the game hearing the crowd yell BORING and feel affirmed before I realize it is ORANGE. When I slip out during the first quarter to chat with the shopkeeper and his wife next door about small towns and literature, he tells me, when I return, that I have missed a lot, meaning a touchdown off an interception. He and I have never won anything, until the Game Quarter raffles. What are we to do with a mini helmet and burnt orange commemorative coffee table book? They join the Waterford ring holder (fifty percent off!) and Christmas tea towels in the back of the closet because you never know when you need a gift for Dirty Santa.
Sunday his son is trying to build a cat door and we discuss mortise and tenons, dados and dovetails. I know about this because he has spent fifteen years sleeping through Yankee Workshop.
Monday morning, I ask if I am his true love. He is a smart man and thinks he knows the right answer. I tell him the updated price list for for all twelve days is $107,ooo. But. We already have the pear tree and I am willing to let what birds may roost there. As far as the gold rings, I already have plenty of those, in fact, when you get down to it, what I am really interested in are those Lords a Leaping. Make ’em young, well built, cheap and scantily dressed and I will figure it a fair exchange for this past weekend. If he feels like slipping out to play with his lathe while I enjoy the show, well, I will understand.