Expiration Date

Here's where we differ: I won't drink milk after the expiration date and she will.  A fine match, I'm sure, though we're screwed when the cottage cheese goes over.  She doesn't eat cottage cheese.  Candles are another matter--scented candles, the kind that harken back to my childhood, the same candles that stir my memory bringing back babysitters and the aunts who must've burned such candles themselves.  She can't stand them.  I mean she can't be around them without sneezing.  Allergic.  But I'm not allergic to olives, so what's my excuse?  Kalamatas make me gag, not sneeze.  So what are we left with?  Chocolate.  Well, that's an easy one.  Beer and most wine.  The West Wing and Evolution.  

I took her to a basketball game, made her wear the t-shirt, and she cheered, asked questions like "Why do they keep shooting from there when they keep missing?"  What could I say?  Apparently formal logic does have a place in sports.  She was a good fan, dancing with the rest of the crowd, slapping me five after dunks and swats.  And where have I returned the favor?  I don't leave abruptly anymore?  I call when I'm going to be late?  I try not to raise my voice, to become angry when she asks for footnotes?  I say, "Clinton was leading by double digits this summer and now she's on the ropes," and she asks me, like I should have remembered the source, "What poll was that?"  I say, "That national poll.  The important one," and she wants to know which one specifically, but I can't remember because how am I supposed to recall the names of polls when we are in bed and my brain has turned off and hers is still at full speed.  The woman wants citations for Christ sake.  

And yet, when I wake up and she is there (on her 1/3 of the bed), her mouth slightly open, the slow breath moving through her lips; I know that I can put my feet on hers, that she will not be angry.  I can rub her head and she will purr in her own way, as if she were some lithe cat with freckles, and it's on these days that I rise and down my pill, keeping it between my teeth until I get to the fridge where the milk is past due, and damned if I don't drink it. How many women can do that?  How many freckled women?