"What are you doing?" she asked from the living room, amid the clutter of junkmail and newspapers and dishes.
"I'm acting out this age old western ritual called Making the Bed. You should try it sometime."
She gave him the finger and collapsed on the couch. "My back hurts. You expect me to do all this work when I'm in pain?"
He was beginning to know what pain was all about. It was about knowing you were trapped, that this was all there was to life. He wanted something different.
"How about we get flannel sheets, honey?" he asked. Any small change would do.
"I don't want flannel sheets. I'll get too hot."
He tensed up inside by how easily she dismissed him. After he got the bed made his wife decided she needed him to massage her back, so she sprawled her considerable mass across the newly made bed, pulled off her shirt, and handed him the massage oil. He remembered buying the oil on Valentines Day in hopes to spice up the marriage. Now he wanted to spread it all over the kitchen floor in hopes that she would slip and crack open her head.
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