“Do you know how to connect the wells?” my husband says.
“No.”
“You have to know this. Come here, I’ll explain it.”
I look down in the well and suppress the urge to spit.
“Don’t,” he says.
“What?”
“Don’t spit. That’s the water we drink.” He knows me too well. I listen to his explanation about switches, pipes and pressure vessels and some more. He keeps on talking, my thoughts are living a life of their own. He points to the switch he mentioned first: “come again, what’s this for?” He knows me too well. “You can only live an autarkic life if you know this. Otherwise you die, right?”
“But I’ve got you, babe.” (Never let the opportunity to use a musical ref go to waste).
“What if you can’t reach me?”
“Then I’ll just lower a bucket and fill it.”
He raises an eyebrow and sighs. “Okay. I’ll explain it one more time. Grab pen and paper because only then you’ll remember what I’m saying.” He knows me too well.
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