“P, I’m not kidding, I want you to tell me what you want to eat after surgery. I know it’s going to be hell and I want to know exactly what to get for you. I think it should be bland. I think you may be queasy but I know you hate bland food. I’m not sure you’d eat bland food even on your death bed.”

“I don’t care what I eat. I wouldn’t worry about it, we can just nuke something.”

“No, hell no. We are not nuking something on the day you have surgery. I am getting you some food but I want to know ahead of time what you want.”

“Well I don’t know what I want. You’ve been telling me all week I am going to be insane - how would I know what I want when I am insane when I am not insane yet. Why don’t you ask a nurse in there or something? Ask them what would be good and get that.”

“Hell no! I am not asking those… some Coloradan fruit cakes what to do. I know what they’ll say. Go get her a square of tofu,” he said theatrically. “Get her some leaves to eat and some tofu, and I’ll say hell no!  I’m getting my girl something that’s going to stick to her ribs on the day she has surgery.  NO, P. I am not asking some fruit loop in there what you should eat - They don’t know what they’re talkin’ about they’re from Colorado.”

I stared.

“Okay, fine. Don’t talk to me. Don’t tell me what you want, I can see I’m going to have no help at all.”

“Nuke something, I said.”

He waved his hand in my face to dismiss me as if obviously it’s going to take a highly trained soldier to figure this shit out.