kissing coffeecups.

I can’t remember what Jeff was trying to tell Olivia’s lemon cake the other day. I do remember that Olivia was working somewhere else, the sink perhaps, and asked Jeff to please not hover over the two fresh out of the oven layers which were cooling on the butcher block. Because at first glance, that’s what you might have thought he was doing—inhaling their lemony aroma. At second glance it was clear that that was not his intent. He was speaking to them because he thought they were Olivia.

The truth, possibly subjective, is that Olivia looks even less like a lemon cake than Becca looks like a cat, and I’ve already mentioned the time that Jeff was asking Becca a question while posing it directly at the cat in the chair beside him. But such, apparently, are some of the quirky dysfunctions of a brain with an atrophied posterior cortex.

Sometimes Jeff likes to give us (as in me or his children) a kiss. A few days ago, as Olivia left for work at the hardware store while toting her morning mug of coffee, Jeff leaned over and gave the coffeecup a goodbye kiss. He frequently aims for my shoulder. I don’t know why. It doesn’t look much like a coffeecup.