Flat Baroque
One night, around dark thirty, I set out on a quest of sorts. On foot, flashlight in hand, I felt the twigs crack beneath my feet, smelled the spongy earth scent you only get when it’s rained recently. It was cold, but not frigid. I couldn’t see my own breath, but gloves and fleece lined pockets came in handy. There was a visible mist in the air, making an ordinary night into a scene from a horror movie. I’ve always loved night noises because they’re private, fickle even. Some critters scuttle away underfoot. Others cackle and shriek loudly, then silence themselves altogether as you approach. I knew I was in the right place as soon as my feet touched the gravel. Down a long path, around a wooded bend, next to a mossy tree, I found my destination. As I pointed my flashlight at the target, I felt wistfulness in my heart. I read the epitaph out loud. “Here lies Kevin Moon. He said terribly rude things to his wife while putting together an antique bed. May he rest in peace.” I kid! I kid, I tell you. But really, this is a story about how our marriage has been tested like never before. Because, nothing strains a relationship like furniture assembly.