She said the dryer was making a sound. He said what kind of sound. She said a thumping sound, like something was caught in the drum. He asked if she'd checked the lint trap. She said yes. He asked if maybe it was a button, a zipper, a coin. She said she'd checked. He said these things usually work themselves out.
Two weeks later she said the dryer was still making the sound. He said maybe they should call someone. She said she'd already called someone. The repair person came Tuesday while he was at work. Worn bearing, sixty dollars for the part. She'd paid with the card.
He said he wished she'd told him first. She said she had told him. He said he meant about the repair person, not the sound. She said the sound was the repair person. That was the whole point of telling him about the sound. He said he thought she was just mentioning it.
She started keeping a list. Not for him—for herself. Things she'd said out loud, the date, what happened after. Dryer—told March 3, called repair March 14, fixed March 17. Gutter—told April 1, told again April 8, hired someone April 19. Pilot light—told May 2, re-lit it myself May 2.
He found the list in December. He read it as a record of complaints. He said he didn't realize she was so unhappy. She said she wasn't unhappy. He said the list suggested otherwise. She said the list was a record of the house.
He brought the list up in counseling. The therapist said it was interesting that she needed to keep a record. She said she kept a record because otherwise the repairs didn't exist. The therapist asked what she meant by that. She said she meant the dryer.
The therapist waited.
She said the gutter. The pilot light. The back step that was pulling away from the foundation. Literal things, in the actual house where they actually lived, that would actually break if no one actually fixed them.
The therapist made a note.
She could see the note from where she sat. It said metaphor—house as relationship.
“I was talking about the dryer,” she said.