Intimacy Interruptus: Making Time For LoveMaking
Mr. Busy grabs the leaking trash bag by the lapels, as if confronting it with long overdue rage, "Listen, you, I'm taking you OUTside, NOW." He rushes out the door, adrenaline pumping, and stuffs a dripping, slothful nemesis in a barrel.
He comes back in, stomping the debris from the soles of his shoes and thoroughly washes his hands. Meanwhile, Mrs. Busy is frantically looking for socks that match; not for herself, for she wears shoes which no longer require socks as a time saver.
No, no, these matching socks are for her children who, somehow, manage to chew through them as if they were rice crispie treats; they disappear that quickly.
Mrs. Busy looks over at Mr. Busy washing his hands and remembers about the afternoon, suddenly, like a stab in the gut. "Are you picking up the kids from Swamp Mom's House, Honey? Remember I have that Important Meeting about post-it notes today until at least 5:30."
Mr. Busy kisses Mrs. Busy on the cheek, offers a quick rub of her lower back, "Yea, I can do that, but where does she live again?"
"I'll write it down for you. It's just 202 Swamp Street, remember?"
They bustle away, planning, cleaning, attacking the garbage, walking the kids, feeding the dog ...
At 4:30 a.m.
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