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Saturday Morning



“Why are there batteries on our dresser?” Asked Oliver in that everything I say sounds sexy British accent of his.

“I will tell you - if you are sure you want to know,” Mia said full of cheek.

A moment passed, one of those Einstein’s theory of relativity moments - that feels like an hour when only a few seconds passed.

Oliver pursed his lips, “Well?”

Perhaps I’ve played this wrong, Mia thought. Saturday morning used to be a sure shot. Lazily gazing at each other in the mid-morning sun, the biggest decision being where to eat brunch - what else was there to do but fall into a tangle of limbs?

Then again, Saturdays had changed a little. On this particular morning, their two kids pounced on Mia and Oliver shortly after 5:00am demanding attention and Cheerios. Mia dragged her bones out of bed and poured two bowls. Then, when there were complaints about the cereal, she made peanut butter toast. Finally she turned on a DVD. Mia was pulling out all the stops. It was Saturday morning.

At the bedroom door, Mia attempted an alluring stance, missed the door frame, and tripped into the room. She was quickly derailing her own train to sexy town and was desperate to get back on track.

OK, she thought, what could these batteries be for?

“The alarm clock?” Mia said, a question more than response.

“You put batteries in but didn’t set the time?” Oliver asked as the traitor clock winked: 2:34, 2:34, 2:35.

“And toys” Mia blurted. “You know that monster truck that blasts music. It must have been that.”

“Why on Earth would you replace the batteries in that?”

Right, I am losing him, she thought.

“I’ve taken up a new hobby: Doomsday prepping.”

Here Mia realized she had gone too far, but her mouth just kept opening and closing.

“I know – shouldn’t that involve a generator or liters of water, stacks of non-perishable food and gas masks? Well, you have to start somewhere.” Mia finished with a flourish.

“So you started with a half open pack of double As?” Oliver retorted, “I don’t want to know what they’re for.”

Mia made a move for a back rub. Oliver jumped out of bed and grabbed his towel.

“You are disgusting.” Even the word disgusting in a British accent sounds classy.

“You are so cute when you are disgusted,” Mia purred, clawing at her last hope for a return to the Saturdays of time gone by.

“I’m going to have a shower. Then, do you want a cuppa’ tea?” Oliver asked, straight from Downton Abby.

Mia flopped to the bed, resigned. Then the first rays of morning light glistened, like fingers from heaven on the shiny copper tops of the batteries nestled snugly in their pack.

“Thanks. A cuppa would be nice.” Mia said.

Then, with a smile, she added, “Hey, shut the door and you know - don’t rush your shower.”


Kristin Procter lives and writes north of Boston. She was born in Canada, married a Brit and birthed Australian babies. These days, Kristin organises MOM, an open mic series for local motherwriters. Her work has appeared in print and online journals, as well as anthologies.
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