Partners of Academics Don't Write

It’s time to mop the floor. It has been, at least months. We have no bucket and the mop sucks, but I can clean out the garbage can and use that.

He lies on the couch.

I sweep the floor throughout all the rooms from the back of the apartment to the front.

I ask him to get the laundry.

His head hurts.

I mop the wood floors, using what’s left of the cleaning fluid.

He picks up another magazine.

Dust! I need to dust, all the bookshelves are hairy, with cat hair and his intellectual Jew hair, all over his intellectual Marxist books.

He says he needs to bring books back to the library.

I have moved on to cleaning all the glass; all the mirrors, framed pictures, lamps, television.

He remarks how we rarely use the television.

I polish all the wooded furniture and the house smells of almond and lemon.

He falls asleep.

I get the laundry, putting some of it outside to finish drying, clean up dishes from lunch, make the bed and feed the cat.

He is awake.

I am awake.

He is picks up another book to thumb through and asks me if I’m hungry.

I’m not

He is, so he makes some Indian food and announces again he needs to go out and study.

He gets his things together in one small tote slung over a thin, academic shoulder. He turns,

Hey, how come you never write anymore?