We Chose Hardware Over Heart-Shaped Menus

I slept in.

That alone makes it a noteworthy day. Most of my nights are spent fitfully: asleep, awake, too hot, too cold, too noisy, what is that dog doing now? You understand. But last night — perfection. I fell asleep quickly, stayed asleep, and woke at the wildly indulgent hour of 7:30 a.m.

Seven-thirty.

For me, that borders on reckless indulgence.

Then I had my coffee.

At this point my husband, who had been awake for hours because he operates on some mysterious pioneer metabolism, began outlining his plan for the day: hardware store, pharmacy — did I need anything while he was out?

The hardware store.

My ears perked.

I love the hardware store. That is where they keep the lumber. And aside from chocolate and a few other delicacies (all of which are, coincidentally, chocolate), there are few smells more satisfying than freshly cut lumber. Especially if you arrive at exactly the moment they’re sawing boards to order and the entire building smells like ambition and sawdust.

There are also tools. Rows and rows of tools. I like to stand in front of them and imagine what it would be like to own a collection rivaling Bob Vila’s. I would not necessarily build anything. But I would be impressively equipped.

“What time are you going?” I asked, with what I hoped was casual restraint.

“Probably after lunch,” he said. “Do you want to come?”

Do I want to come.

“Yes,” I replied, attempting dignity. “I’ll get ready after I check a few things.”

He went to his office to do whatever it is he does in there. I went to mine.

A little while later it occurred to me that if we were going into town anyway, we could eat lunch first.

I walked into his office.

“I had a thought.”

“That’s always dangerous.”

“Lunch first?”

He agreed immediately. He has never been opposed to lunch.

I found a place online, sent him a screenshot, and began getting ready.

Just like that, a hardware run became an outing.

We ordered at the counter at the café and found a corner table — the kind that makes you feel slightly hidden. Televisions played different things: Sesame Street on one, sports on another, the news muttering in the background. A small-town symphony.

He ordered a Reuben so large we had to bring half of it home. I had fruit and cottage cheese — fresh, simple, exactly what I wanted. We talked about our fathers — about how both of them had spent weekends working on this or that project around the house, and how that must be why we both feel at home among lumber and tools. It’s hard not to love a place that smells like your childhood.

Then the hardware store. Then the pharmacy.

He stood in line for prescriptions while I navigated the aisles. The moment I entered the shopping area I was confronted by a bulging display of Valentine’s candy and heart-shaped things promising to solve problems no one had yet admitted to having. I walked on by.

The store was busier than I have ever seen it. I paused behind people more than once, performing the polite side-step shuffle that passes for choreography in fluorescent lighting.

The baking cocoa I prefer was out of stock — clearly I am not alone in my discernment — but I found an elite, upper-crust, possibly judgmental brand that seemed to require generational wealth and decided that for one day I would be elite enough to try it.

At home, I made fudge brownies. Not cake brownies. Fudge brownies are denser. Richer. Slightly unreasonable.

They begin in a saucepan with melting butter — not margarine (egads, what is wrong with some people?) — so first the smell of butter fills the room, and then chocolate joins it, and for a brief period the entire house smells like competence.

Normally I leave them plain. They do not require embellishment. But this time I added frosting and sprinkles. I prefer white frosting on brownies; I enjoy the visual layer distinction. My husband prefers chocolate frosting. I went with chocolate this time.

Marriage is largely a series of negotiated frostings.

Romance in your sixties is less about Valentines and more about who remembers to buy the cocoa.

I slept in. I smelled lumber. I ate a warm brownie.

I’m not sure what more a person reasonably needs.