After the kids are tucked in and the television’s on, there’s very little save an emergency that motivates my husband or I to pick up a ringing phone. Don't take it personally. We don't pick up for anyone.
We talk, watch movies, fill each other in with the details of our day. Nights offer us a moment to breath and communicate by more than text.
It’s past eleven when the phone rings. Chaz pecks away at his computer. I sleep upstairs, an open book beside me; two Golden Retrievers on the other side snuggled in for the night.
“Hello, it’s Jack.” A frail voice crackles out of the answering machine. “I know it’s late but there’s a light that’s been out on my porch.” The man pauses. When I hear the message the next morning, I imagine a white-haired grandpa wearing a worn plaid shirt and stained khaki pants.
“I’ve tried three different light bulbs, but none of them seem to be working,” he apologizes. “It’s the light outside my back door, the one I like to keep on all night.”
I listen and realize he must have called after I’d fallen asleep.
“What are your plans?” Chaz asks walking into the kitchen and planting a quick kiss on my cheek before heading off to work.
“Did you hear the message?” I ask. “I’m going to call that man back. Tell him he had the wrong number.”
“I talked to him,” Chaz says.
“Last night?” I ask.
“I wasn’t going to pick up,” he says. “Then I heard him talking.”
“You,” I smile, “are so making the blog.”