“Are you making more hot chocolate?” I ask, hearing my husband fiddling around in the kitchen.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he says, as a cupboard door closes with a bump (someday we’ll get those cool ones that slowly close themselves the last few inches) “I have no knowledge of these events.”
Seconds later an enormous mug, (I’m talking 5 inches high and 4 inches in diameter!) is plunked beside me, two dozen marshmallows already half melted into the rich, creamy chocolate yumminess.
“Did you want some?” he asks.
Usually I would gladly drink his beverage for him while he’s waiting for it to cool, but this is the fourth time we’ve danced to this tune, with the same mug (the last time it had scoops of vanilla ice cream slowly melting like iceberg in the Pacific- like the one the titanic ran into, but just melting- not sinking ships). I’m also thinking “it’s after ten- do I really want to drink this just before bed?”
I take a few sips — just because it’s there, and to save him from having to drink it all himself (what kind of wife would I be?). After a few minutes he comes back and starts drinking.
“Where did it go?” I ask as he walks into the next room and returns without the mug.
“It’s… empty?” he offers sheepishly.
“Empty,” I repeat in disbelief. Suddenly four huge mugs of hot chocolate seems insufficient. I want more…