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."

I had just finished watching back-to-back 30 Minute Meals. I've long ago decided that those recipes do only take 30 minutes...if your name is Rachael Ray. "What are you hungry for?" he asks me as the 2nd episode concludes and I shrug. He moves to the kitchen, wanting to get dinner underway. He pulls the cupboard doors open, all of them, before commencing the meal.

I steal a glance at him through the available sliver of my view, and he's standing at the stove stirring something, shifting his legs fluidly. He moves well. He's mumbling some sweet nothing to the heated pan, then cocking his neck with telling attitude...and as the sizzling pierces the space, I can pull his statement from the air.

"Who needs Rachael Ray when you've got Betty Crocker."

You tell 'em, Nick.

I went to the Badgers Basketball game yesterday...it's become a thrill whenever I get the chance to see them play. Nick stuffed me like Thanksgiving's turkey at brunch today because starting at 12:00 central time, i.e., one hour ago, I'm on a clear liquids only diet...actually, I like to call it the Gatorade diet. Seems specialer. We sat at our table longer than necessary so that I could see our waitress' New Balance shoes (Nick promised I'd like them, and I did) and also because I was SO full that I needed some time before attempting to walk.

We mused over yesterday, and I began to chuckle as I began, "Boy, a year ago yesterday, I never would have been excited to go to a basketball game..."

Nick picked up and we played verbal leap frog in the retelling, "...fidgeting in the first five minutes because the Badgers weren't winning..."

"Sitting in a bar before-hand..."

"...drinking beer!"

"With three men..."

"...discussing SPORTS!"

Nick paused, smirked, and finished erroneously, "And then asking Jeff afterwards who number nineteen was...'I knew everybody else,'" he mimicked.

I shook my head. "It was number twenty-one."

Damn.