It is a typical summer evening for my husband and I. The cicadas are humming in the trees, the occasional addition of frog song chimes in.
The windows are open and a lazy fan turns on the ceiling as if it is protesting the heat as well.
As the evening light fails, I can watch the sunset from the window of my office. One cat is curled on the pillow of my desk the other is slowly batting at the poodle’s tail in sleepy distraction.
From the kitchen below, I hear the rattling of pans and the opening of the fridge. The cats both perk an ear towards the sound, but both return to napping when the sound doesn’t end with the squeak and pop of my husband opening the plastic container of sliced turkey. It’s too hot to move for anything less than – the good stuff.
I agree with them. I would much rather be outside on the porch trying to catch the ghost of an evening breeze. Instead, I have a deadline to meet and I have to keep cranking out ‘product’.
The peace of the evening is shattered by my husband’s yell. It’s only a single word, but I know that tone.
There is some disaster afoot. I abandon my office and pelt down the stairs, remembering to skip the fourth because it is loose.
Must remember to fix that tomorrow.
I put the thought aside with the hollow promise that I will surely remember it. As I skid into the kitchen with the poodle trailing at my heels, I see my husband standing at the refrigerator.
The icebox door is wide open. He’s standing there with a beer in his hand and a look of utter confusion on his face.
“What’s wrong?” I’m envisioning a lost finger or tooth. Or some calamity that is going to require us both to spring into action.
My husband simply holds up the beer bottle.
“I can’t believe it,” he says.
“Look at how small it is?”
Now, I see what the ‘problem’ is.
The beer bottle is indeed smaller than the usual 12oz. It’s about half the usual size.
“Why did they do that?” he asked putting the bottle on the counter between us.
I didn’t have time to ponder the marketing strategies of a Mexican beer company. I had a deadline to meet. Snatching the bottle from the counter I started back to my office.
“What’s the problem? It’s a single cervesa.”