“Don’t take the shortcut, Donna！” He shouted after me.
A heart attack that past spring forced my husband to leave his job. l was in the middle of my twenty-second year teaching high school seniors, while A.K. stayed home and took over the household chores.
The new arrangement was a disaster. Exhausted after a day of dealing with faculty meetings and students, all I wanted was a hot home cooked meal and a good night’s sleep.
A microwave package greeted me at the table.
One night, I was horrified to discover A.K. had turned our white sheets a suspiciously denim-like shade of blue.
“l found out how to save on water, soap and electricity.” A.K. announced triumphantly.“Just wash everything together.”
During the months that followed, his cooking somehow managed to get worse. At least I cooked us balanced meals, I wanted to say. But then I would remember the time A.K. had eaten every beet and complimented3 the dinner, though I discovered later how he detested the sight of beets. So I wouldn’t say anything to him.
As far as I was concerned, things couldn’t get much worse. So that rainy morning when I found a now-blue half-slip stuffed in a dresser drawer, I could only grit my teeth, l had it！