Today I bravely cleaned the bathroom. Usually it's the same routine. Toss the bathmats into the wash with the towel, alphabetize the stuff on the counter and on the edge of the tub, scrub everything, toss bathmats on drying rack and towels in dryer, scrub everything again to make sure I didn't miss a spot, and then put the mats and towels back in place.

But today I had to clean up the candles first. I put them in their drawer. And then I looked at the one thing that is rarely left on the counter. The radio.

It menaced me. It loomed larger than it ought to. I had put the box for the tape in the bottom drawer, and Frank had gotten it back out. Probably because that's where he keeps his razor blades and he doesn't like it when I mess with "his drawer." The liner notes had been tucked back in the box, but it had been set upright. So I could see his picture on the cover; his arms outstretched toward me.

I almost retreated. I could have called Angie, and exchanged a precious jar of strawberry for the favor of her removing the radio for me. Frank would not.

I remembered his planative call while the tape was playing. "Jeanne, Jeanne, Jeanne..."

I grabbed the box and hid his face with my hand. My hand felt like it had been kissed. My fingers burned where I touched it, yet it was not warm.

I reached for the radio, and firmly marched it back into the kitchen. I put the box into the drawer where I keep my rolling pin.

I set the radio back into its usual spot on the counter. It crackled to life as soon I let it go.

"Give me a chance, Jeanne," it said.

I bolted from the room back to the sanctuary of the bathroom.  ¶ 2:12 PM