You know the moment when a child falls down and they look up at you with that face for a second debating whether or not they will burst into tears?
I was cooking. I kicked him out of the kitchen so I could exert my control-freaky nature on a pan of sauteed vegetables and pasta and responding to work emails on my blackberry when something terrible happened:
The blackberry slid out of my hands, cracked on the granite tile floor and a piece broke off.
And I was on the floor, too, cradling my broken plastic baby and he was standing over me, and our eyes locked, and suddenly I wasn’t sure if I was going to cry or not.
“Do. Not. Cry. DONOTCRY—” he demanded. “I will fix it and it will be perfect DO NOT CRY!”
He picked up the blackberry and got online, querying friends and old coworkers for advice. I stirred the vegetables and bit my lip. I added some white wine and furrowed my eyebrows. We ate the dinner and watched a movie, and he kept an arm around me.
The next morning I paid $19 to fix the blackberry, which is working better than ever thank-you-very-much. I offered him all the leftovers.