We're in Bed Bath and Beyond, browsing pots and pans. Mom wants a new pie crust pan.
I am imagining a life where I need a pie crust pan.
"Oh," suddenly I remember, "while we're here, I need a toilet paper roll holder."
"Like the plastic thing that goes in the wall mount?"
"Yeah. I broke it."
Mom looks up from a rack of pie tins quizzically, "how?"
"I... karate chopped it."
"You karate chopped it." She holds my gaze, silently demanding more information.
"I was angry."
"You were angry." My mother's eyebrows are somewhere near the ceiling where I'm afraid we'll have to call an employee over with a step ladder to get them down. Can I see the blue extra small Snuggie... and Mom's eyebrows?
"We were out of toilet paper."
"You don't think that's how you may have hurt your hand?"
We both look at my wrist, wrapped in an ace bandage for two weeks now for what I've been earnestly explaining away as tendonitis. I type too much at work, I say. Swelling's pressing on my ulnar nerve, I speculate, that's why my pinkie finger is numb. I tell people, it only hurts when I move it a certain way. I'll go get an MRI if it lasts past Thanksgiving.
"You know, I guess that could have been it."