Much Ado

    The car wouldn't start.

    Nothing turned over. No sound Silence. Profound silence.

    Well, that's not exactly true. There was a low grunt, a kind of gasping, a last effort sort of gasp and, yes, a grind from somewhere deep inside the car.

    "Grind is never good."

    "Yes, I know. Neither is silence."

    It was easier to talk about it as they were deciding, no, contemplating, considering what to do. The battery? Or . . . .

    "Could be, but I don't think so."

    "But that sound, that grinding sound . . ."

    

    "Leading to nothing, so . . . "

    "Much ado abut nothing," she said.

    He laughed. Muttered something about glory, overcoming obstacles, then got out of the car, slammed the door, and raised the hood.

    She watched him scowl at the still and silent car innards as she rifled through her purse for the AAA card she thought they had . . . or once had . . . or meant to get . . . couldn't remember.

    It was a dance, a minuet, a prelude to the waltz, the giving over to a problem that might be solved if you just figured it out (1) by staring at the inner workings of the beast long enough--which he excelled at--or (2) dragging out the owner's manual--the researcher, her strength, both on the way to find a solution together, maybe even simultaneously.

    "I think . . . " he was saying.

    "It says here . . ." she said.

    "That we should call Triple A," uttered. . . or was it muttered . . . simultaneously, and so they did.