Come away with me and I will write you a song, my cell phone croons from the table. I stop what I am doing to answer. "Hello?"

"Good morning, Dear!"

"Nick, it's afternoon."

"I know, but you probably just woke up."

Offended and put out, I negate, "I was cleaning the kitchen!"

Immediately, he becomes defensive. "Oh, because I made dinner last night?" he hisses.

"No! I cleaned the kitchen last night, too."

"Oh," he continues, less edge in his voice, and I swear I can hear him think, "because I ate lunch at home?"

"Pretty much."

The first day after my surgery, I, tired of daytime television even then, loaded the second Lord of the Rings movie into the DVD player. I am an admirer—having read the books, I am awed that they were able to make this trilogy into a movie. At times, there are three complete and separate storylines moving along different timelines (but ultimately toward the same end). Meaning, the makers of the trilogy had to physically map out all three storylines and using the clues in the writing, deduct where they fall in on the master order of events! I just think that's so gosh darn spiffy.

The phone rings or breakfast calls, or something happens to distract Nick (who stayed home with me that first day) away from the television. Respectful, very drugged, and slightly asleep, I slur, "D'jou want me to press pause?"

"No, that's okay. I've seen this movie like seven times since I met you."