I get up before my husband. I pour coffee from the coffeemaker and pull sliced melon from the fridge. I place the melon on family china. I place the plate on an antique tray. I serve my husband breakfast in bed. Well, maybe serve isn’t the word I’m supposed to use in this day and age, but I don’t know what else I would call it. Bring? I bring my husband coffee, melon, and toast. When the tray touches his lap, my husband winds my bathrobe tie around his hand and kisses me for as long as he likes. My husband is groggy and grateful. It is my only kiss of the day. When my husband’s at work, I don’t get lonely. I have plenty to do. There’s the dusting. And in the city, the dust never stops. To mop, polish, or disinfect, the dust has to go first. To have anyone into this apartment, the apartment has to be clean. John, the Irish doorman, says, “It’s amazing you’re able to keep this place up by yourself. Your husband’s mother had staff—a laundress and a cook—although she never could keep a maid.
