Me: So. What do you want to do for our anniversary?

Him: (Blank stare. This date has not been in the forefront of his mind obviously.)

Me: I lined up childcare, so we can do something together if we want. If not, I can go somewhere to write and you can have alone time at home.

Him (gamely making an effort): We could go out to eat.

Me: Sure. Where would you like to go?

Him: I don’t know… How about Dave’s Taverna?

Me (not wanting to be a party pooper): Eh…

Him: Yeah, um… Red Lobster?

Me: American-style restaurants kind of gross me out.

Him: Well, do you have any ideas?

Me: The Blue Nile!

Him: I don’t really go for African food.

Me: It’s not African food. It’s Ethiopian.

Him (speaking slowly, as though to an idiot): Jennifer, where is Ethiopia located?

Me: Africa.

Him: Right.

Me (blithely pressing on): What about The American Indian Café?

Him: I don’t really go for Indian food. See, when I go out to eat, I want to eat food that I know I’m going to enjoy—

Me: Well, when I go out to eat I want food that’s different from what I can make at home!

Him: To sink my teeth into a good cheeseburger—

Me: BORING!

Him (deflated): Isn’t there any place we can agree on?

Me: What about The Little Grill?

Him: Everything there is kind of under-seasoned, you know?

Me: No, but okay. Not The Little Grill.

Him: (moody silence)

Me (resigned): So I guess we won’t go out to eat. Do you have any other ideas of stuff we could do?

Him: (no answer)

Me: We could go to Barnes and Noble, get coffees, and read books!

Him: Oh, that sounds dreadful!

Me: Uh…we could play tennis?

Him: No!

Me: I know! We could go shopping for clothes!

Him (flatly): You don’t need more clothes.

Me: Yes, I do.

Him: No, you don’t.

Me: Yes, I do.

Him: NO, YOU DON’T.

Me: Fine. So we won’t go shopping. (pause) You could dig potatoes!

Him: (snort)

Me: We could go shopping for upcoming birthdays!

Him: (eye roll)

Me: We could clean the girls’ room! Redo it! Paint walls!

Him: (giant eye roll and moaning)

Me: So I guess we won’t go out on a date.

Him: I guess not.

Me (reaching for the computer): This conversation is completely ridiculous. I’ve gotta write it down.

Him (alarmed): No, you don’t! You don’t have to write down everything we say!

Me: Okay fine. 

This same time, years previous: coming up for air, wedding memories, so why did I marry him?, Valerie’s salsa, canned tomatoes, how to make butter

I’m propped up in bed, freshly showered, wearing my soft cotton strawberry shortcake pajamas.

Through the open window I can hear the kids throwing darts. (I hope not at each other.)

Directly below me, my husband is rattling and thumping about. He picked four five-gallon buckets of tomatoes this evening and is now laying them out on the shelving we’ve set up in the downstairs bedroom that is not a bedroom.

Tomorrow morning I’ll turn the ripest of the tomatoes into salsa.

The juicer is simmering on the stove top and a half dozen quarts of juice are cooling on the counter.

Most days, I make something with tomatoes and something with grapes, but it’s piecemeal so there is no rending of garments and tearing of hair involved.

It’s nice.

This evening, my sister-in-law dropped off a bushel of crispy-crunchy apples, and the boys and I finished mulching the flower beds.

The days now are thinner, sharper.

Soon there will be dark, slow mornings, cider and donuts, mountains of library books, and fires in the woodstove.

(Written last evening, while the crickets chirped.)