Alma rose at six twenty on Saturday, although no alarm had rung. The children were grown, her mother was staying with her sister that week, and her husband, Sead, finally had a free weekend. Nothing in the house was urgent. Nevertheless, she made coffee, loaded the washing machine, and began a shopping list. Sead appeared in the kitchen and said they had agreed to rest. Alma asked who would otherwise know what was missing.
They had planned a weekend for themselves since their youngest child moved out. When it finally arrived, it resembled an empty room where they didn't know how to place the furniture. Sead wanted to lie down and watch sport. Alma imagined an outing, conversation, and lunch she wouldn't prepare alone. Neither had stated it clearly because both assumed the other meant the same thing by rest.
By noon, both felt hurt. Sead thought she criticized him for relaxing; Alma felt their shared time was becoming another service she provided. She stopped vacuuming in the hallway and said she wouldn't spend all day navigating around his feet. He turned off the television. His first thought was to say he hadn't asked her to vacuum. He withheld it because, for the first time, he heard how easy it would be to say from an armchair.
She sat opposite him. They agreed each would write two things they wanted that weekend. Alma wrote an unhurried walk and dinner out. Sead wrote sleeping late and time without needing to be useful. Reading the last one, she realized she wanted it too. They left the washing in the machine until coffee was finished. None of the disasters her sense of responsibility constantly anticipated occurred.
That afternoon, they walked to a neighborhood they hadn't visited for years. They found a small record shop, and Sead played a song they once danced to. Alma said she had hated it then but hadn't wanted to spoil his enthusiasm. He laughed so much that the shopkeeper joined without knowing why. They ate in a restaurant that wasn't particularly good, but neither needed to wash dishes. That evening, it mattered more than a perfect menu.
On Sunday, Alma slept later. Sead fetched bread without asking where his wallet was. When she woke, he asked whether she wanted coffee now or later. She chose later and remained in bed a little longer. It wasn't an entirely new marriage. It was the same one, with enough room for an answer not always to arrive immediately. The phone stayed without an alarm until Monday, and neither tried compensating for that small omission through excessive work.