Mousse Trail

Twelve consecutive days of carpentry can wear on a man, but Dave's been making up for lost time lately. This balmy June Saturday is a much needed reprieve from the morning's rat race and eight-plus hours of ten-penny nails. It's odd how the sounds of hammers and chop saws have blurred the edges of his hearing. Years on the jobsite have taught him to tune out background noise, for better and for worse. Sometimes this adaptation is useful on the home front like when Linda's on a tear in the next room, though it can also be limiting. Today it's the latter. The birds in the yard are unreasonably happy considering the weather, but Dave doesn't notice at first; nor does he let the overcast skies or mild temperature discourage him from opening the freezer for some ice cream. Linda's already two hours late in returning from her cousin's baby shower, but she'll be home soon. Home and fed and ready. The plaid print of Dave's boxers reflects in the chrome handle on the refrigerator as he stands mostly naked in this kitchen that's been half-his for four years, the longest place he's lived since high school. Dave misses high school, more so when he thinks about it. He misses a lot of things, though he'd only admit to a fraction of them. The logo on the lid of the ice cream promises familiar comfort, but the flavor is a new one that the two of them tried last week. It was a stressful selection at the gas station since he'd been trusted with the critical task of choosing the variety. A full three minutes went into the decision. Both he and Linda take their snack foods seriously. He didn't want to disappoint. When he tried making small talk with the clerk about his decadent woes it fell upon deaf, inbred ears. The woman stared blankly above rabbit teeth in silent prayer for No More Like This Guy until the end of her shift. Dave liked the ice cream that night, as did Linda despite its containing multiple forms of chocolate, and he likes it even more today as he stands in burly bewilderment. In a lazy effort to avoid dirtying a spoon he opts to scoop it from the carton with his left index finger. One bite, two bites, three and then four. The cream becomes sweeter as time drips onward. The birds in the maples come into aural focus. The moment is savored as much as the paycheck he received yesterday. If it was any more zen he'd be floating. Four bites turns to eight, turns to twelve, and he stops himself. The pint's quite lighter, he knows that she'll notice. If there's one thing that Linda's good at it's watching the stats, especially when they're decreasing. For a woman with four siblings she's not so good at sharing. Dave always laughs at the irony in that, though there's not a brother or sister of his own in sight with which to share the humor. In sight, he reminds himself somberly. But what is perception if not relative Truth? Dave pictures the cross-bar of the capital T in that last word dropping down to a humble lower-case position. He's learned a lot about that overrated factor, one of them being the misconception that it will set you free. Linda's delayed discovery of the missing ice cream is a prime example of his new stance on the matter. His pointer finger's cold and numb from being used as a utensil in the frozen debauchery. Dave sucks it clean after returning the carton to its shelter of ice and walks upstairs to his bedroom. Maybe Linda will come home soon and they'll do something that'll require him to put on pants. Maybe she'll strip down and they'll take a pleasantly unnecessary afternoon nap. Either one is an inspiring prospect that makes him miss her more, like the dull ache in his jaw when the ice cream took its toll upon his teeth. Sunday is Father's Day, he remembers. He'll have some phone calls to make. With the equivalent of a mental groan he climbs back into bed and waits; for what, as is often the case with a tired carpenter, he's not sure.