to lock or not to lock

“I’m glad you don’t do that,” said B as he watched tv in bed late last night.

“Do what?” I ask, looking over my book at the tv, “Cross my arms and stand in the middle of the road to scare you as you back out of the driveway?”

“No, give me that disappointing look…” he says nodding toward the woman on the tv.

I bit my lip and laugh that nervous sort of laugh. I knew what was coming next.

“…but I get locked out a lot.”

It’s true, I do lock him out a lot. It’s not so much because I get angry with him and demand he spend a night on the front porch to think about things. Rather, it’s habit. I come in the house and my fingers automatically twist the deadbolt keeping those in, in and those out, out.

“I didn’t mean to lock you out…tonight,” I said. I don’t know how long he knocked on the door before I let him back in.

“The funny thing is tonight, I saw the porch light come on and then I saw you come outside. The least you could do is say hello when you come outside to see me.”

“I didn’t see you, so I thought you were still next door talking to the neighbors. I didn’t want to walk over there and leave the kids alone.”

“I was on the other side of the car.”

“Nope, didn’t see you.”

“I stood up and whistled.”

“No.”

“My bucket of cleaning stuff was right there next to the car. If you would have taken 10 steps, you would have seen me on the other side of the car.”

“Why would I take 10 steps to look on the other side of the car? The car was parked on the street. I didn’t think you would be crouched down in the middle of the street.”

“I was cleaning the wheels and tires to make them all shiny, for you.”

“In the middle of the street?”

“I didn’t feel like getting out the jack, taking off the wheels and cleaning them on the front porch, but I will do that next time if it means that I don’t get locked out of the house.”