A secondary supporting leg on our bed breaks while we’re having sex. We stop and I retreat to my study as he begins sliding the king mattress off of the bed to look at the damage. He tells me, I need an Allen wrench—a declarative statement, not a request. I keep one in my desk just in case; I retrieve it and hand it to him within seconds. I recline in silent repose on my sofa, reflecting.
He calls me back in and we get back into bed. I’m going to try to ease back into it. He tells me that a screw is bent but It’s good for now. I know he wants me to say okay, yay, or to stop talking at all, but I can’t help myself, and I ask: well, what does that mean? He laughs in exasperation and clutches his face with his hands, shaking his head as if he should have expected this.
Every night, he tightens the screw before he goes to sleep, and every night, the leg bends in on itself again under the strain, right back where we started.
On our anniversary, I accompany him to buy a screw and watch as he huffs and puffs and struggles and whines. I abandon him to walk through the store and he calls me on the phone when he’s done.
The leg is securely in place again, and all I can think about is how much longer every other leg can hold.