I stand working at the laptop on our kitchen island, reading aloud the affidavits of people who sued their opthalmalogists for malpractice. I glance at Shannon to see whether she’s interested.
One of her feet is on the floor. The other is in the kitchen sink, fresh nail polish glistening in the fluorescent light. Not as limber as she once was, she’s pushing her elasticity. She holds a can of generic cooking spray.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I saw on TV that spraying Pam on your nails helps the polish dry faster.” She grunts as she works to stay balanced.
I roll my eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She sprays her toenails, managing to coat all her toes and part of her foot. After putting down the cooking spray, she struggles a bit. It seems she’s reached her stretching limit and can’t lift her foot high enough to get it out.
“Help me,” she says.
I step over to the sink, gently lift her foot, and swing her leg 90 degrees.
Seconds later, from the corner of my eye I see her other leg swing up and hear the now-familiar sound of her heel hitting the sink’s rim. “Oh, now I can’t reach the Pam,” she says.
I grab the cooking spray and hand it to her. She sprays. I again help her withdraw her foot and get back on all two’s.
Later, after we talked about several other things while getting ready for bed, I mention the great Mexican food we had at my office’s catered lunch.
While clipping my fingernails into my sink, I say, “They told me to bring home some of the chips, because there was so much leftover. I said, ‘No, no, my wife would kill me if I did that. Those things are greasy. Good, but greasy.’”
“My toes are greasy,” she says from the bed.
“What?” I ask.
As nonchalantly as if she’s telling me my toast is ready, she says, “Because I sprayed Pam on them.”
That’s my cockamamie lady.
