Perhaps I load too much emphasis on the role, a title-less position as the house falls into a tight slumber. Yet, a comfort lies knowing the wall clock is wound up for the night, the downstairs’ lamps are turned out, and the cat remains curled on the living room sofa, occasionally twisting an ear at the night-sounds by the window.
And partly imagining myself as “husband” seems on the whole… odd.
I always pictured a “husband” as a faithful sheepdog (no offense meant; I am playing with associations). A symbol of security and experience, one well versed in carpentry and electronics. Someone who wore sweaters and smoked a pipe. Who reads the morning newspaper regularly. Sporting a full, coarse beard. Growling at predators. Baying at the door to be let out on occasion for a romp in the park with the boys—