My wife and me

I am on the beige overstuff chair. My legs are stretched on a brown leather ottoman with a red plaid wool blanket on my lap. I like pressing the "last" button on the remote. The Giants versus the Bears on Fox and the footbal highlight reel on NBC. D reminds me to use a coaster for my beer bottle. I oblige. It is a little thing and his table is new. I think about how to get rid of all the crumbs from the crostini I have been eating. I carry them in my sweater and brush them off in the batroom sink. I come back and settle back down in the chair.

"Something smells good," I say.

"Oh. I am toasting the rice. A little trick I learned from Rachel Ray. Something new to try. I really like that 30 minute meals show. Last week ...," he says. Eli Manning just completed a successful drive downfield. I couldn't believe it. I watched as the men in short sleeved huff and puff in the subzero Chicago air.

"... do think would be better?" D asks.

"Huh?" I reply.

"Salad or broccolli," he says.

"Oh, they both sound good. Whatever is easiest. Do you want any help," I ask as I take another swig of beer.

"No, I got it under control." He starts humming something as continues to shuffle pans around in the kitchen. I think he is humming "My Humps," but that thought is too terrifying. The smell of food is in the air and I am warm underneath the blanket. I cannot help but laugh at loud at a commercial with Peyton Manning in it. Peyton Manning is talking to camera giving advice on what to do about a gut.

Dinner is ready. We sit on the marble counter. I take out silverware and napkins. D lights two candles and dishes out the Whole Foods chicken cutlets, Rachel Ray toasted rice and a cucumber salad. We talk a little about work, about my interview with Novartis, about his experiments. Then D unravels his elaborate plan to order a Russian mail order bride. I cannot stop laughing. I choke on a piece of toasted rice. Choking only makes me laugh harder.

After clearing the dishes, we settle with our beers in the living room. The Sunday night game has already started. D whips out his checkbook and methodically goes through all his bills. I watch until the half. I call a taxi. It is snowing outside and I have no desire to take the T in this weather.

"I'll come out with you," D says.

The two of us wait only seconds outside when a yellow cab comes skidding down the street. We hug and I go home. I can't put my finger on it, but something seems funny about this night.