Pass the salt

I spot it. Resting on the side table next to him. My lips press together as I consider my options – remove myself from the cocoon of comfort I had just settled into or be the first to break the hour-long silence.

I look down at myself, my legs curled under me and hidden inside the comfy blanket. A bowl of popcorn resting in my lap. I consider the third option for a moment – that I didn’t need it – but that silly thought passes quickly. Stubbornness and laziness battle it out for a second in my brain until I finally sigh.

“Pass me the salt, please,” I whisper.

The corner of his lip twitches up as he reaches for the salt, picks it up and passes it to me without looking. I take it, salt my popcorn, then place it safely on the table next to me.

He clears his throat. “I’ll pick up my socks.”

I glance at the t.v. as familiar opening music starts to play. “I’ll put your screwdriver back.”

Popping a piece of popcorn in my mouth, I shake the bowl and salt it again.

He takes a drink and eats a piece of his popcorn, chewing slowly. “I’ll fix the faucet this weekend.”

I also take a drink. “I’ll keep more gas in my tank.”

The opening music fades as the actors come on screen.

“I would just like to point out,” he says. “You gave in first.”

My nose scrunches and I huff. “Shhh. It’s on.”

He laughs.