The Husband comes home, it’s a Tuesday night. He strategically places a bottle of fizz on the countertop in the kitchen deliberately to catch my eye. I sense something is up. It’s Tuesday. I don’t drink during the week and yet he’s promoting this bottle like a stuffed toy to child who is being photographed to stop it crying. It’s to distract me from whatever he’s about to say. On the one hand the news can’t be that bad as it’s not Veuve, but it certainly isn’t good news because it’s not Perrier Jouet.
He nervously clears his throat. I can tell he’s deciding already whether to finish giving the news with jazz hands or not, to lighten the mood. It’s likely this strategy worked well in the practice run in the car.
“So”, he says, using the bottle as a performance crutch, “I have something to tell you that admittedly is a bit shit halfway through, but I promise gets better at the end, but yes in the middle is like holy crap this cannot possibly get any worse but really ends up okay after all, even though it was seriously shit” he rambles realising he should maybe have bought two bottles – the child is most probably going to burst into tears.
“Go on” I venture not certain whether I want to hear it but curious anyway.
“Well, I took your engagement ring to the jewellers to be fixed but because it’s a Georg Jensen piece it can only fixed in Denmark.”
“Ugh, you are right, that is a bit shit.”
“Um, no, that’s not the shit part. Anyway, it takes a little while for them to fix it” he continued.
“Seriously? That is shit.”
“No, that’s not the shit part. So, it got fixed and was on its way back to the airport. And the security van got robbed. And your ring is gone. And they are really sorry and… are you okay?.. you’re not blinking.”
“Tell me this story gets a hundred fucking percent better.”
“Oh it does” he says sliding the bottle within my reach, “they are building you a new ring just as nice as the old one and it will be all shiny and perfect.”
“But it won’t be the one you proposed with, it’s gone forever” I mewl, having progressed at break neck speed through the five stages of grief to acceptance. “You’ll have to propose again.”
“Okay,” he says kissing the top of my head, “I can do that.”
I know he’s still wondering whether to do the jazz hands.