Free A Cup of Comfort for Couples by Colleen Sell Page A

the hill. I put on my glasses to get a better look. It seems some previous resident took a pencil to this picture and added little X-rated stick figures, tiny characters doing things in positions that defy gravity and the laws of science. There are anatomically gifted male stick figures and well-endowed female stick figures frolicking on a hillside near Niagara Falls, their exaggerated teeny-tiny privates sticking way out. Discovering the stick figures puts Sam and me in better moods. We’re laughing, and he’s my best friend again. We forget the side-of-the-road argument. We are both hungry.
    I decide to take a quick hot bath to warm up. Sam turns on the TV to check out Canadian broad-casts. Sam cannot be in a room without a TV on. It is still the first thing he does when he comes home from work. The TV runs constantly in our home, even when there is no one in the room. I walk through the house turning off the unwatched televisions, only to find them on again five minutes later, once again with no one watching them.
    I wash the motel bathtub using a lot of disinfectant. I fill the tub and add the scented bubble bath I brought with me. I pile my hair high on my head and slip in. My eyes are closed as I soak and relax. Then it happens.
    â€œHoney?” says Sam, standing in the doorway. He is not in the bathroom or the bedroom but sort of half-way here and halfway there with his eyes on the TV.
    â€œWhat, Sam?”
    â€œWant to get married?” Now, this is said with the same type of romance as “honey, I’m going down the hall to get a bucket of ice” or “honey, when was the last time you had the oil changed in the Toyota?” He is not even in the room. He is in the stupid doorway. He is not even looking at me. He is looking at a rerun of One Day at a Time .
    â€œI’m in the tub, Sam!”
    â€œOh, okay,” he replies.
    He plops down on the bed and continues to watch TV while I bathe.
    I sit in the tub contemplating what just happened. Sam’s romantic nature may be stretching itself to the limit at this point. Then again, I could be hallucinating.
    A little while later, we are at the motel’s restaurant. Everything matches here, too. Tables match the carpet. Carpet matches the window treatment. Window treatment matches the waitresses’ uniforms. In fact, the colors are identical to our room. There is even the same painting over our table — although it lacks the anatomically gifted stick figures. We both notice it. It’s the level of cleanliness in this place that worries me. I mention this to Sam.
    â€œI know it isn’t your mother’s kitchen,” he says. “Jeez. Stop being such a clean freak. We’re on vacation.”
    So I go with the punches. To be safe, I stick with something basic to eat: grilled cheese, fries, Diet Coke. Sam orders baby back ribs, the all-you-can- eat special.
    â€œAre you sure?” I ask Sam.
    â€œI’m starved. I haven’t eaten since New Jersey.”
    Fact of significance: Sam finishes not only one large rack, but two and a half large racks of ribs. My comment that the ribs look a little funny — a little green — doesn’t impair his appetite.
    Then the romantic side of Sam once again shifts into overdrive. Sam decides we should go for a walk to work off the meal and to see Niagara Falls. Sam nixes my idea of driving over. We walk a few blocks. The closer we get to the falls, the louder it gets, the windier it gets, the colder it gets. Sam mentions something about having an upset stomach. I tell him he ate too much. The more we walk, the colder and crankier I get.
    I see the falls. It looks like Niagara Falls, only semi-frozen. It’s getting dark. Sam snaps some pictures with me and Niagara. I snap a few of Sam and Niagara. No one else is there to preserve this moment of the two of us together in one picture with Niagara Falls behind us. No one is crazy enough to visit Niagara Falls