Peter looked at his wife. “Are you
serious? What are you telling me?” He shifted his gun belt.
He was on duty in 15 minutes, but stayed in the doorway of their unfinished
kitchen.
“I don’t see why you’re
surprised,” said Cat. “I’m in the prime of my life
here and you’re going off to work another double shift.”
“We’re short handed with Tracey
gone, you know that. Besides, we need the money.”
“Did it ever occur to you that we might
need something more than money to keep things afloat?”
“So you screwed the foundation guy?”
“Peter, when was the last time? Huh?
Can you even remember?”
Peter listened. He heard water running, realized
it was the toilet he’d fixed last night, which had been their
6th anniversary.
He walked into the partially remodeled bathroom
and jiggled the float in the toilet, then flipped the light switch
so he could see to wash his hands.
Nothing happened.
“What’s wrong with wanting love,”
demanded Cat through the walls.
Peter tried the fan switch. No juice. Had
to be a breaker.
“What’s wrong with needing some
affection?”
He unclipped his flashlight and slipped on
his up-close glasses and found the switch that had tripped underneath
the bathroom sink.
“A kind remark even . . . “
The light worked now. The fan, too. He felt
a flicker of satisfaction for he was no handyman. He reclipped his
flashlight next to his baton. If only life was as simple as a blown
fuse, a tripped breaker.
Peter listened. “Did you say something?”
260 words
© 2005 Guy Biederman
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