Krueger

"Please don't fall asleep!" my daughter pleaded as I curled up into the over-sized sofa, the fire lulling me into slumber as we discussed baby dolls and tower-building.

 

It is only 6:30 p.m. and though the day has been full, from a 7 a.m. run to a late afternoon, very successful, Christmas shopping session I am nonetheless inexplicably exhausted.

 

I vaguely recollect my husband making mention of much ado about coffee earlier in the day (it's possible I wasn't listening as intently as a good wife should).

 

And so, moments ago I sluggishly made way to the garage, where I could hear his circular saw whirring.  I peered into the cold, concreted room that houses all his tools- many of them purchased as gifts over the years- often settling on the Bosch tools, seeming to fit Lloyd's capable personality.  I am, quite surprisingly, a bit of a tool-snob. 

I momentarily marveled at his latest under-taking- a hand-crafted piece of furniture- though I quickly moved to the more pressing matter at hand.

 

Stuttering, and with lack of vocabulary through my sleepy stupor I slurred...."Llooyddd...did you say something about... non-...caffeine'd cof-.."

 

And before I could complete my sentence he confirmed my worst nightmare.

 

"Decaf? Yea, I made decaf today- we ran out of regular coffee".

 

And like something out of a horror film I cowered like a half-naked, non-Virginous victim, my face crumpling with hands covering my face as though I could possibly deflect the reality that I was about to face. 

(The reality, you know, of the slow, painful acceptance that I had been running on fumes all day.)

It was pretty dramatic. 

 

in fact... I can't remember what this story was actually supposed to be about. Certainly not about *caffeine*. 

 

The critical and cruel effects of decaf, perhaps. 

More later.

... Must. Acquire. Coffee.