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I woke up and my heart was beating. It was a bad dream but I couldn't remember what it was about. As I stared out at the dark of my room my cat made soft noises. She was having a bad dream too, mewling and whimpering in her sleep. I scratched her ears until she rolled over against my side, hugging my hand to her stomach. I lay perfectly still...afraid to go to sleep.
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It was time to go so I scratched his back till he rolled over and I could kiss him. I kissed him quick, before he could cough again. He called me sweetie. He calls me sweetie, kiddo, cutie. All those names you can't stand until the right person calls you them. I couldn't answer, I just kissed him again and he coughed this time. Then he snored. He snores more now, steady and low.
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I remember when we stayed with his father, before we were married. We slept on the floor. We had couch cushions under us, but I kept sliding between them and would end up sleeping on the hard concrete, waking up to the dust bunnies. We were smushed in a twin sleeping bag of green felt. His dad slept on the couch above us. We could hear him. My boyfriend gathered me up in his arms, placing his mouth to my ear and said "My Daddy snores like a walrus."

I giggled.
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Driving to work and my car had a snowflake on the dashboard. It was warning me there would be ice. In my head I thought "snowflake!" which is what I say when I'm cold now. Outside it was sunny, but the grass was covered in powered sugar frost. It was pretty, the bright green touched with angel white. I wondered if this was rime.
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When I was a teenager I did a play and told a story about rime. How Jack Frost would paint the windows with art of ice. In the play I was raped. I lay on the hard concrete floor and the boy slapped me over and over while I screamed. My father saw the show and sat in the front row. The whole scene he leaned over the boy closer and closer. Then I said my line and the scene was over.
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I'm watching the rime on the grass, on the trees. I'm passing the fire station and all the trucks are out of the garage with their lights on. All the men are standing around in front of them, stamping there feet and rubbing their hands for the cold. They all wear short-sleeved shirts. On the side of the road is a pumpkin that has been dashed against the ground. It's broken and split. It's face is pressed into the asphalt. Later, driving home, it will be just a streak of orange across the street.
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He calls me cutie and sweetie and honey and kiddo. Sometimes, when he's really sweet, he calls me pumpkin.

Blech

My husband was looking at a bowl full of tap water, destined for the fish bowl, and cocking his head from side to side.

"I think it's oil." He said.

Sure enough the water that has been coming out of our well had that rainbow-ish slick of oil mixed in it.

This house is my first experience with well water. Previously I used to think of wells as quaint holes, with a little brick walls around them, giving off buckets full of cool, crisp, fresh water. The kind of water you think about when you are really thirsty. The kind of water that tastes sweet and fills not just your tummy, but your veins, with life. Now I know, wells are a pain in the butt. They leak, they create swamps in your backyard and the water tastes vaguely of fish and mold.

The fish and mold I could deal with...the oil was another thing altogether. I invested in bottles upon bottles of water.

Today I was looking for just such a bottle. Our fridge was sadly lacking in chilled bottles of water and for some reason my line of new bottles had dissapeared. I realized I'd recently mopped the floor and could not remember where I had moved them too. But I knew we had more. We always have more. My fear of ingesting whatever else happens to live in my well causes me to forever stock bottles of water. I'm sure there is a small dragon laying eggs in my stomach right now. I am putting my faith in hydrocloric acid.

Off to the garage I went, me and my hatching dragon baby, and sure enough there was another bottle of water. It was nestled sweetly in a stack of winter tires, like a little baby bird. It would have made neat, semi-politcal art had I paint a face on it and wrapped in a baby blanket. Instead I hauled it in the kitchen and poured myself a tall glass of clean, pure, un-oiled water.

And took a sip.

Blech!! Ick! Ach! Blllllaaaaaahhhhh.

I dragged my tongue along my teeth, trying to get rid of the taste and figure out what was so familiar about it. What was that flavor? It reminded me of racing days spent watching cars spin around cones and leave sticky black marks. It reminded me of hours spent waiting for my car to be serviced. It had the vague feeling of that weekend my husband and I spent driving car after car after car and visiting dealership after dealership.

Then I figured it out.

"I think it's tire" I said.

Ewwww.