She tried to open the door and enter the house. The entryway rug had other ideas. It bunched up behind the door and refused to move. She struggled, opening and closing the door, working her way in inch-by-inch, until she could get her foot through and kick the offending piece of carpet aside.

She did not do this in silence. In fact, she is quite surprised that the carpet didn’t disintegrate in the inferno of invectives she threw at it. Finally, with a kick, a shove and one final oath, the door opened completely.

He, coming up the stairs and entering the condo behind her, said, “Everything okay, Hon? It’s really not like you to make so many derugatory remarks.”

*  *  *  *

That door has seen other struggles. Mostly, when He’s tried to get through it carrying all the paraphernalia for his trumpet gigs. “And to think”, He grumbled under the pile of bags and music stands, “that I chose to play trumpet because all I’d need to carry was one itty-bitty little case“.

“Well”, She said helpfully, “now you look like a pack mule. Do you really need all of this? Surely there’s a happy medium somewhere.”

“I’m sure there is”, He shot back, “but I’m not traipsing all over India looking for him.”


  1. i don’t know how you manage to come up with all these amusing stories but i LOVE them.
    thanks for a laugh 🙂

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