Perpetual Motion Machine

My wife's mind is a perpetual motion machine. At night, once the baby is in bed, the television is off, and the world is hushed and dark, you can hear a steady hum. It's like the sound of an engine at a constant idle.

My wife can be drop-dead exhausted, but she will lie awake for hours as her mind sifts through hundreds of thoughts and ideas.

Wednesday she had a long day at work and went to bed early. About 40 minutes later, I crawled into bed. I was sure she'd be asleep by then. I put in a lot of effort to tip toe across the bedroom and gently ease into the bed. I got comfortable and stared to doze off.

I was startled when my wife started talking to me.

"Did I tell you that I might have found a house we can salvage stuff from?"

"Hmm? No, you didn't."

"It's behind the library in Russellville. It's the Victorian that someone stuccoed."

"Yeah," I said, "I know that one."

"The library owns it, and they're wanting to tear it down."

"So, do you think they'd let us have the flooring?"

"They might. Do you want me to ask them about it?"

"Sure," I said, "I'd even be willing to pay them $300 for it."

"What kind of floor do you think it has? It's not as old as the Queen."

"I'm guessing it's about as old as the Davis House. Maybe 60 years old?"

"Yeah."

"I'd say that the floors are probably pine. Three-in-four chance that they're narrow boards, maybe three inches wide. Maybe a one-in-four chance that they are wider."

"Hmmm."



A while later I drifted off to sleep. I could still hear the hum of the machine beside me.