Last night Jon put his clogs in the dishwasher. Where we wash our dishes. The dishes that hold the food that we put into our mouths. A chunk of my tongue fell off this morning when I took a bite of cereal.
Then, dressed in nothing but a black t-shirt and pair of black boxer briefs, he put the clean clogs on his feet and stood on our bed. With his hands on his hips and his head cocked at an angle, he asked, “What do you think of this, huh?”
I had to suppress the involuntary urge to throw up. “I think that this isn’t doing anything to help my cancer.”