I used to laugh at him.
“One day that tower is going to collapse on you.”
He would shrug.
“I’ll deal with it when it does.”
So when Robert stood after dinner one Monday evening, walked into the kitchen, tied up the trash bag, and carried it toward the back door without being asked, I laughed.
“Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”
Normally, he would have made some sarcastic reply.
That night, he didn’t.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
Then he went outside.
I didn’t think much of it.
Maybe at fifty-eight he had finally decided to conquer his greatest enemy: household garbage.
But Tuesday night, it happened again.
At exactly nine thirty, while we were watching television, Robert stood.
“I’ll take the trash.”
I glanced toward the kitchen.
“There’s barely anything in there.”
“I’ll take it anyway.”
