Two smokes converge in the middle of Eugenia and I’s kitchen. This haze compliments, rather than obscures, the sadness of disappointment in the scene before me. A smoldering black skillet on a pristine white stove adds a bleak feeling, and Eugenia herself completes the picture with a descent into the depressed. 

She droops against the back chair at our round, glass-topped table. While the setting sun pours into the kitchen window, Eugenia nearly disappears beneath her red hair behind a yellow t-shirt. I’d think she wants no part of this scene, yet there she sits, going through cigarettes like she’s in a competition.

Clearly, there’s a lot going on here. What’s worse? It’s all just hanging around, and there’s where I could help a bit – at least. 

The lack of Eugenia’s usual precision hits my first step into the sea of fog. Her recipes are things of instructional design beauty. Every step for each ingredient follows in lines that even I couldn’t mess up. Many times, while working on furniture assembly, I dreamed of Eugenia’s directions instead of whatever garbage came with the thing. Disbelief at tonight’s results must fuel this scene. Part of her surely asks, “Can you believe this?”

The skillet and stove are the centerpiece for such a question. Eugenia violates every principle of mine for displaying merchandise with what’s on our stove. The colors are too sharp a contrast; the space is far too empty, and contents of the skillet give no hint at what they are (or were). Such a product would’ve definitely landed on my manifest day, since I fixed everyone else’s work. Yet, given Eugenia’s state of hiding, I doubt that she wants any reminder of all that. 

Still, I can dump the remnants in the skillet on a plate before running some cold water in the skillet. Now, the skillet goes back on its hook beside the stove. I learned that lesson after an attempt at breakfast two years ago. She walked into the kitchen, thanked me for cooking, but the only conversation during that meal was the misplaced skillet. After eight years of marriage (at the time), that is a lesson that I won’t forget. 

With that lesson in mind, the stove gets one last glance; then, my attention turns to the counters. They receive a vehement wipe-down, and the charred mass of dinner cooled enough for a trip into the garbage. All right, nothing is in the sink; everything is wiped down, and the trash is not on fire. May this pass inspection. 

The sun has enough light for a glare through our window. I might as well be blind from the stove to that window across our stone-gray floor. Yellow light does more to cloud my vision than the smoke; it’s more potent than anything Kinkade could imagine. Blessedly, our windows open easily; it helps that we don’t lock them – being on the second floor has its advantages. 

I hold a hand into the passing wisps of smoke. They drift as neatly out the window as they gathered in the kitchen. A kite on the wind might feel this way on a cloudy day. Eugenia’s emerald, hazel eyes peek through my imagination, slamming me back to earth. She, apparently, followed my every step. 

With two more steps, I join her at the table – sitting in the chair with my back to the window. I’d rather look at the escaping clouds than the vanishing sun. 

Eugenia pulled her hair into a ponytail. That’s my wife – the girl who takes on the world. She had this look at our first meeting. She marched to the bar at Home Field, and she bought our first drinks together. Still, any other difference between her and a blanket on that chair this evening would be a challenge to notice. 

All right, I can play this game.

I slide down my chair into a lounging spot. “Today was a tough one,” I say. “They sent me all over town; I’ve never even seen some of these stores. To make it ‘better’: They sent someone else for the first displays at these locations! I think these agitate me most because I get to deal with the upset store manager. These folks finally get convinced to let us in their stores, and somebody else delivers a shoddy – at best – presentation of our merchandise.”

Eugenia’s yellow shirt comes into focus. On it, a little bunny sits atop a pile of pastel-colored eggs with the caption: “Find your own.” Seems like some good advice for dinner. At least, Eugenia has put her elbows on the table while one pale hand holds her head. She even put down the cigarettes.

So, I keep trying: “Still, they gave me one new store – at my last stop of the day. Can you believe that? They know, by now, what they ought to do, and they still choose to do something else. Why don’t they just send me into the new spots? Then, they could let these other folks restock my work. We could save so much time and effort that way. Plus, we might not threaten our store relationships from the start.”

Ha, there it is. Eugenia’s hand fly above her head; she couldn’t stop herself. Now, her eyes widen as she knows that I’m aware of her paying attention. I smile, and she smirks, as both our stomachs try to join the conversation. 

Now, I could ask Eugenia for another attempt at whatever was in that skillet, but I’ll wager she’s as done with today as I am. Plus, I’m not willing to step into the kitchen, so how could I ask her to? Then, what ought I do?

Searching for that answer, I say: “Regardless of where they send me or how far they stretch me, I’m still ahead of them.” I lean over the table toward Eugenia. “I will still end my day in the best place with you, even if it part of it is on fire.” 

Eugenia grants me a chuckle with an eyeroll. I take this as confirmation of us having nothing left for today. Since we’re both beyond today, I tap the car keys in my pocket. “I heard of a new breakfast place down the road today; want to check it out?”

She’s on her feet before any answer. I trip over the table to catch her in the living room. I guess we’ll get some breakfast and see what tomorrow holds.