Off to Work

This morning--Dave's first day that he doesn't have to go to the salon-- Dave says he feels as though he's been set free from prison. Curious picture forms in head of prison made of hair. Actually, curious, not the right word--am revolted and dismayed and tell Dave forcefully that I'm glad he's out of the business. Pause. Ask tentatively, Now what is he going to do? Cookies. What kind of cookies? Lots of kinds. For Christmas. Am not sure why, but this makes me very uneasy despite excitement about eating cookies, know that should keep big yap shut, but ask, And what are you going to do tomorrow? I don't know, Dave says, pulling out cannisters of flour, sugar, getting butter out of fridge. Say, I guess I'll go on in to work. I made you a lunch, Dave says, pointing at kitchen table. Feel sad that I have to go out into the cold. He is still wearing pajama bottoms and Jenny is connected to his right calf, watching his every move. Say forlornly, I'll see you later, but he is too busy excavating the mixer from the cabinet to hear.