I decided to let him watch for the water to boil while I started the fire, making sure to put kindling in a little teepee first, then newspaper, and then the bigger logs in a bigger teepee on top. ”Voila, yourself,” I thought as I lit the match. But the fire wouldn’t start. “How’s it going over there?” my boyfriend called in a much-too-cheery tone. “Oh, fine,” I replied, “I’m sure it will start any minute. I think the logs you bought were a little wet.” “Oh, really?” He left his post and came over to where I was working. “I think you just need to make the teepee smaller so there’s a better tunnel for the air.” He adjusted a few things, lit the match, and we had a glowing fire within seconds.
“Don’t get grouchy, don’t get grouchy,” I coached myself, “Don’t let him see your bitch face.”
I was happy to show him the best way to drain the pasta, but then became suspicious. “Are you serious?” I thought, “The master chef can’t figure out how to use the lid for maximum draining success?” I tried to read his face to see if he was putting me on, but he looked sincere, like he was ready to take notes.
Later that night, I burned my thumb in the fire while turning over the log with my hands. “Yes dear, I know, the underside of the log is extremely hot even though I can’t see it,” I grumbled, while he tended to my wound. My headlamp kept turning on and off at will for no reason so I had to borrow his to walk to the bathroom, and then on my way to the bathroom I tripped and fell in a ditch. I felt like Alexander in The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, and I wondered if there was a deeper reason why that was always my favorite book as a kid. I thought about escaping to Australia as I nursed my thumb and hobbled back to our campsite.
