Searching for Perfection

"I know, I know I do." She takes a deep breath. "When I gave her a hockey stick it was so we could play for fun because it was something I know well, and now she's playing for real and I want her to stop being so serious and simply enjoy playing. I don't want her to base her identity on being a hockey player like I did. Like, look at Jordy, kicking the ball around for fun, not drilling anymore, he's mucking about. And over here we have Ebony still dragging the ball back and forth like no one else at her age does. Literally, no one else on the team can do this like she can, and even if they could, they wouldn't take it to the level she does."

"Where's this coming from, Bridge?"

She sighs. "I want to see joy on Ebony's face more than grit and determination. I know I've passed my obsessive genes onto her, but I don't want her turning out like me."

"You gave her great genes, but she's not you. And yeah, she doesn't naturally smile all the time, and I'm sorry, I know she gets it from me, but she gets all her good parts from you, where she's a sporty champion because her mum was a sporty champion."

"Oh, rubbish," Bridget says, nudging my arm with her elbow. "She gets plenty of good things from you. When you and Ebony interact it's totally different to how she and I interact. It's like, I'm her coach and you're her mate."

"Now look who's talking rubbish. You and she were cheering and jumping about only ten minutes ago. I could hear you both laughing from here." While we're talking, Jordan approaches us, his ball in hand, and he pats Peggy, then tries to sit on the bench between Bridget and me, but there's little to no room, where he's trying to wedge himself into the smallest gap. "Mate, please don't lounge on us. Go harass your sister over there while your mother and I are talking."

"Don't harass her too much, though," Bridget warns.

Jordan turns to face his mother, a glint in his eye, like we've given him a personal challenge. "Mummy, can I take your stick?"

Bridget hesitates, then relents. "Only if you don't swing it hard, and if Ebony doesn't want you to interrupt her, please don't..."

I think she meant to say more, but she doesn't, and Jordan takes Bridget's stick, which is approximately a metre long, way too big for our seven year-old son, even if he is at the taller end of his age group. I consider saying something to Bridget, like, Just let them work it out, but I figure she's already telling herself this advice and doesn't need me to instruct her on parenting.

We watch the kids interact, where Ebony's clearly irritated at first, Jordan laughing, egging her on to play him. Despite not taking to hockey like his sister has, he's picked up a few skills even if his mother's stick is way too big for him, and suddenly he's charging forward, trying to take the ball from Ebony. She instinctively moves and deftly drags the ball away, running it around her little brother, who comes at her again and again, even if he doesn't stand a chance.

Right when I think Ebony's becoming aggravated by her brother's persistent intrusions into her training routine, she starts egging Jordan on to come get the ball from her, and she's laughing. I'm nudge Bridget, saying, "Look at them, they're having fun."

"Ahhh," she semi-sighs, "This is the dream, those two playing nicely."

"They're doin' alright, ay." We watch the kids in silence for a moment, and I ask, "How was your day, anyway?"

After a second or two, she answers, "I finally submitted the grant."

"Congrats," I say, nudging her arm again. "Good luck with it, I reckon you made an excellent case so you have a great chance. Funding should flow, or at least if it were up to me, I'd give you all the money."

I've made her chuckle and she says, "Thanks to you for all your help."

"What, proof reading and making a few suggestions? It was nothing, you did it all."

"Oh, listen to you. Paddy was super impressed with some of your rewording."

"I hope you claimed these as your edits."

And I do hope she does, because I want her colleagues to see she's more than just a sports physio who helps implement their experimental treatments with the test patients, where she has other talents, even if one of those talents is having a husband who's pretty decent at writing and editing formal documents. After all, I do it all bloody day at work so it comes as second nature, but she wrote a damn fine draft grant before she asked me to look at it.

With a shrug, she says, "I told them you provided some input and changed some things around."

"You're too honest. Next time tell 'em it's all you, because they don't need to give me promotions or credit, but you need it. And since I'm your other half, my contribution totally was your work!"

She sniggers, giving me a nudge. A nudge of affection, I'd like to think. "I'm the first to admit you're better at writing than I am."

"At least I'm good at something, right?"

She shakes her head. "Nup, you're good for nothing."

"Ohhh, well, I was about to offer to make dinner, but since I'm good for nothing, I think whatever I make will taste ordinary so perhaps you can make it instead."

"Oh, did I say good for nothing? I meant you're exceptionally good at making curries. And I bought chicken and plenty of vegies, which, funnily enough, go well in curries."

"I am good at making curries, aren't I? And you're good at writing your grants, so there."

Bridget chuckles and we sit for a bit, watching the kids running about in the centre of the field. I can hear them both laughing now, despite the cacophony coming from the chattering lorikeets roosting in the nearby trees. I can't help but smile because this evening is lovely.

This truly is perfection.

Across the field, directly opposite us, two personal trainers arrive and begin setting up some thick ropes and medicine balls and kettlebells and the like under the light from several lamp-posts. Cars are arriving in the carpark there, headlights on in the twilight, blinding us briefly till switched off, clients of varying shapes and sizes arriving to cheerily greet their torturers.

"I should go over and join them," I say. "It'll do me some good. I was rooted when running after Jordy and the soccer ball."

"You should and it would do you good."

A thought comes to mind. "Probably too expensive. But, how does this sound? I have my own personal trainer who's super fit, super awesome at training, and also, is a physio and can help me when I'm injured and dying, which I'm sure to do before I'm halfway out the door."

"Are you saying you want to go running with me?" There's hope in her voice, I can hear it.

"Yeah, I am. Surprise, surprise, right?"

"How are we going to..."

She doesn't finish, but I know what she's thinking. I whisper, "The kids can look after themselves for an hour in the mornings, Bridge. Ebony can look after Jordan, because look, they didn't kill one another out there."

"I know," she whispers back. "I wasn't thinking about the kids, I was going to say how will you wake in time, you can barely get out of bed as it is."

She totally was going to ask about how we might leave the kids home alone if we go running together. But she has a point, I do struggle first thing in the morning. Every goddamn morning, I reckon.

"We'd work it out," I say, replying to her spoken and unspoken questions. The kids are walking towards us now, two silhouettes, difficult to distinguish who is who except Ebony is taller than her younger brother. With Bridget and my genes, by the time these kids stop growing they'll both be well over six-foot in the old scale. I tell the dogs, "Time to go, kids."

"Can we run back home?" Ebony asks as she approaches, obviously addressing her mother.

"Maybe you and Daddy can have a run?"

"Daddy doesn't run," Jordan says, laughing. "He gets tired."

"If Daddy ran more," Ebony adds, "Maybe he wouldn't be so tired."

I have to laugh at her logic. "You wait till you're my age and you'll understand. Thinking of running will be enough to make you tired."

"Skye's daddy is forty-one like you, Daddy, and he ran the Gold Coast marathon."

"Good for him," I tell my darling daughter, standing, groaning old man noises, feeling a hundred years old.

"You know, kids," Bridget says as she effortlessly stands, "Your daddy ran marathons before you were born."

"Did you really?" Jordan asks this with a child-like innocence, because he is a child, which I'm grateful for. I suspect if Ebony asked these words, her tone would be sarcastic.

"I did. Three of them and a couple of half marathons too. Crazy, right? Anyway, kids, I'm not running tonight, but if you want to, go for it."

"Don't tell them that," Bridget whispers while sorting the dogs out.

"I thought you'd run with them," I whisper back, "But even if you don't, they'll be fine, they know their way home."

More whispers, "I don't want them on their own in the dark."

I know, I know...

We end up walking home together as a family. Ebony leads us, carrying the two hockey sticks, Bridget's at my side walking Peggy, Jordan has Arrow slightly behind us and he's talking smack about nothing in particular, while I carry his soccer ball and plastic cones. And you know what? This is nice, genuinely pleasant.

Another moment of perfection.

If she didn't have the dog stake in her right hand, and my hands weren't full, I'd venture to take Bridget's hand. Do it, I hear you say! I'm gonna do it, right. Shifting the ball to rest between my body and right arm, my left hand is free, and soon she changes grip on the stake and dog lead, and my left hand finds her right, and her fingers wrap around mine, and yes! And that's how it's done, folks. Aren't we cute!

Yep, I'm pathetic. Whatever, think what you like, but we haven't held hands so much in recent times, maybe only on our exceedingly rare date nights. Once upon a time our hands almost always found one another when walking together like this, as naturally as breathing. And I didn't want to contrive our contact, forcefully taking her hand in mine, which could appear clumsy and awkward. Oh, and now she's totally giving my hand a squeeze too.

This means she loves me, which is the best thing in this whole damn world.

Returning her squeeze, we walk and talk and hold hands, where Bridget asks about my meeting, which I tell her went as expected, and I speak more enthusiastically when I tell her about meeting up with Rob, omitting the three pints of beer I drank, which I'm thoroughly embarrassed about, and I forego mentioning the chicken parmi, but I do tell her about Judith, to which Bridget replies, "Oh my god, what great news! Yes, we must have them over for dinner!"

When we arrive home I make my version of a Thai chicken curry, taught to me by an ex-girlfriend from my university days, who was actually of Vietnamese heritage so I guess it's a Vietnamese chicken curry. Only a smidgeon of chili, otherwise Ebony won't touch it with a ten-foot barge pole. While I'm filling the house with delicious scents of dinner, my family do their things, showering, TV, reading, probably dropping hair ties and bobby pins on the floor and couch, and soon we're sitting at the table together, eating and talking.

"Don't forget we have an early start in the morning," Bridget's telling the kids, who roll their eyes. Her reminders are for my benefit too. "And we have to dash back home as soon as your games are over, because we're heading up to Aunty Robyn's and Uncle Sam's straight afterwards, so unfortunately you won't be able to hang around with your friends like after most games."

"We know, Mummy, you don't have to keep telling us," Ebony says, rolling her eyes some more, and my smirk is probably not as discreet as it should be.

Everyone's starving except me, because of my massive lunch, and they tuck in heartily, but soon dinner's over, and Bridget and I are bustling about, mostly getting the kids into their bedtime routine and all the other little things we need to do. The kids want stories, even though Ebony's adept at reading her own, and so is Jordan come to think of it, but they both still like being read to. Eventually they're in their rooms, and I plonk myself on the couch, soon joined by Bridget, who sits with her back against the armrest, facing me.

"I'm pooped," she sighs, removing her glasses and rubbing her eyes, her hair a little more tousled than usual. I look to her and she gives me a little smile.

"You totally look like poop," I say with a little grin.

"Arghh, so now we know where Jordy gets his poo talk from."

"Nah, he taught it to me. I'm more a booger talk kind of person."

"He gets his booger talk from you, too." She reaches out with her foot and nudges my leg, but she's grinning. Her eyes appear bloodshot and I know she'll go to bed soon, but neither of us move, our eyes lingering on each other for several more moments.

This here is peak domestic bliss, I think.

"I'm excited to hear about Rob and Judith," she says, breaking the silence. "I'm glad Rob's found someone normal for a change."

"I think Judith's better than normal."

"You know what I mean. Normal, like not a cheating narcissist. But I can't help but hope he's faithful to Judith too, because we know he also has form."

Ah, yep, there it is. I didn't want to mention it, but yes, Rob cheated on Ruby, and Ruby cheated on Rob. He's my mate but he can be a bastard. Ah, look, I think he was messed up by Ruby, where at the height of his and Ruby's issues he decided sleeping with a work friend would be...I dunno, comforting? Dickhead. And as for Ruby, her infidelity occurred around the time Rob cheated on her, but neither found out about one another's unfaithfulness till much later. Ruby's affair was also with a colleague of hers.

Anyhow, no more about Ruby, because Rob's with Judith now, and she's amazing, and if the cunt ever does decide to cheat on her...well, I don't think he would, but if he did it would be his loss. And while it's early days and we barely know Judith, I think we'd be more than disappointed with Rob if he's ever unfaithful to her.

"Yeah, I know," I say, "But I think they're suited. And happy, they're off on a dirty weekend down the coast to Byron Bay. They appear so in love, and they even kissed right in front of me and I'm not talking about a quick peck either! It was bloody awkward there for a moment."

"Oh, my," Bridget exaggerates, hand covering her mouth, "No kissing in front of delicate Ricky!"

With a slight snort, I can't help myself. "No kissing's pretty much the rule these days."

Her eyes burn into mine and not in a good way either. "That's not fair, we share kisses every day, but maybe we won't anymore."

"Awww, sad face. And here I was a moment ago thinking we were living in peak domestic bliss."

Shrugging her shoulders, she says, "If you think domestic bliss starts with you saying I look like poop and ends with you suggesting you don't get enough kisses, then you might need to sleep out the back with the dogs. But I think they'd kick you out into the courtyard for snoring."

"I don't snore."

"Yes you do," she says with wide accusatory eyes. "You've become a snorer."

"Great..."

Like I said, total domestic bliss...

My timing's shit, but there's something I want to ask, because it's bugged me since last night. I wait a moment, Bridget still looking at me, and I sense she's going to stand and head to bed any moment now, so I ask, "At the risk of ruining our fantastic mood, I've been thinking about Cara and Manny all day. Have you heard from Cara?"

Bridget swallows, returning her glasses to her face like they're going to defend her from tough questions like this one, and she's shaking her head. "No, I don't know what's going on there. Perhaps Manny's as sarcastic as you and he probably snores and she's over it."

"Hey, I'm sorry about before." I reach out, letting my fingertips rest against hers between us. She sighs and looks so worn out and I know I should tone my jesting down tonight. "I, ah, have been thinking about them though."

"I don't get it," Bridget says. "Manny's wonderful even if they've struggled with a few things, and Cara couldn't quite explain what her reasons were other than she isn't satisfied. I was talking with Jenna at work and she said Cara might have heteropessimism."

"Heteropessimism? What the eff?"

With a shrug of her shoulders, Bridget replies, "I don't know, Jen said it's, like, how straight people joke about disappointment in their relationships, feeling limited by their partner and not able to have fulfilling lives. Or when people say they're giving up dating because there's no good men out there, things like that. Or maybe when husbands don't do their fair share of the cooking and cleaning. Google it, apparently it's a thing."

"Lucky you have me then, who cooks and cleans, and does the lawns and takes the bins out too."

"Then there's the husbands talk up their domestic exploits while using terrible sarcasm at their very tired wife's expense."

My first thought to mind is, It's always the blokes in the wrong, isn't it? I don't say this of course, but do say, "True, some husbands have very bad timing with their sarcasm and jokes and they're terribly sorry about it." I'm pushing my fingertips against hers and I assume it's a good sign I feel her returning my touch with a little pressure, and she gives me the tiniest hint of a smile, though she might actually be wincing. I continue on, saying, "And we also know Jenna never has problems in her LGBTQ circles."

Giving the tips of my fingers a slight smack, more like a pat, she says, "Sounds like sarcasm there. And she'd say her dramas are different to ours."

"Very different, like finding out her girlfriend has another lover, then seducing said lover as revenge kind of different?"

"Yes, Jen's having problems as we speak because she's always having problems in her love life. But she was only speculating over what I told her about Cara. She told me she has a friend who left her husband for no other reason than she felt she could live a more fulfilling life as a single woman. It's becoming a trend."

"Do you think...Cara's wanting...what?"

Bridget shrugs again. "I don't know what Cara wants. She wouldn't tell me. Or at least, she beat around the bush about their issues. Apart from the fact she doesn't feel like going to Spain with him, because she says she's busy, from what I could tell their issues were normal couple issues, not deal breakers. Like, I can't imagine Manny ever saying Cara looks like poop."

Do I detect a little smirk? Maybe, I can't tell, sometimes her lips look like that. I push on, asking my next question. "Are Cara and Manny coming to your Aunty and Uncle's anniversary tomorrow?"

"Cara is, but I don't know about Manny."

"This sucks."

It totally does. Manny's awesome, we have a bromance. Not my words, its Bridget and Cara who've said it. Bro-in-law-mance were their exact words, saying this many times, and in the past they've giggled as if it was some big joke. But it's true, because after Rob, I'd say Manny's my closest mate. When Cara brought him home, he and I hit it off. I love the guy, he's great fun to be around.

"It does suck," Bridget replies. "Can't do much and maybe Cara will tell me more tomorrow."

I give her a nod and a little smile too, despite my mixed emotions over my sister and brother in-law's issues, Bridget and my fingertips still pressing together. "You're right. And speaking of tomorrow, we have a busy day and I'm pooped."

She gives me a little smile, saying, "Yeah, you look like poop too."

"Touché," I say, grinning, glad she took my bait.

We're up and about, doing the things we do, Bridget checking on our sleeping kids and going through the nightly routine, teeth and toilet and whatever else. I'm climbing into my pyjamas when I spy the crystal whiskey glass on my bedside table where I'd left it when I'd accidently brought it to my room last night, the sticky brown residue dried in the base, so take it to the kitchen. Bridget's there, staring at the gas burners of the stove, making sure they're completely off, and she looks up, noting the glass.