Why I made coffee

James and I are both curled up in the living room with books or something. An urge for coffee strikes and coffee is suggested. The usual unsaid negotiation ensues, about which of us is most curled up and happy and mid-chapter and would therefore be most inconvenienced by stomping upstairs, taking out the coffee, grinding the coffee, cleaning the pot, waiting on the steam, warming and foaming the milk, and etc. Or alternatively, which of us is most dismally sad and in need of tender comfort and therefore exempt from stomping up the stairs, cleaning the pot, and etc. Or, alternately alternately, which of us loves the other the most. None of these things are of course said. We must manage them with minute variations on the request: "I'd like coffee." "Would you like some coffee?" "Would you make me coffee?" "Will you make the coffee or shall I?" and the like. I'm telling you, Jane Austin couldn't make this stuff up.

Yesterday a new variation. The unsaid negotiations come to a momentary stalemate. I say: "tell you what, the person who can make the most pathetic moan does not have to go make the coffee. You can go first."

James blinks then makes a tiny whimpering drawn-out moan, like a good-natured but gravely injured golden retriever puppy who is so sorry to put you out by dying slowly on your sofa. The cat wakes up and lifts his head to check on James. That's how good this moan is: it concerns the cat.

In five seconds I'm trying to swallow a pillow. In about thirty, James stops moaning and laughs too, and tips out of his chair.

I have to concede the contest; I cannot even mount a challenge. When I get my breath back I skip up the stairs to make the coffee.