meeting of the minds

The other night B walked into the bedroom where I was lounging on the bed and watching TV. He went about his normal routine, set the alarm clock for O Dark-Early, and then said, “Meet the volume.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. “Excuse me?”

“Meet the volume.”

I was baffled. Perhaps I didn’t hear him correctly. “Could you repeat that?”

He stared at me for a moment and then reiterated, annunciating every word as he spoke, “MEET–THE–VOLUME.”

Meet the volume? Meet it with what? How do you do that? I gripped the remote in my now trembling hands, so confused by his request. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I really don’t understand what you want.”

My apology met with an even sterner stare and exaggerated, “MEEEEET, THHHHEEEE, VOOOOLUUUUMEEE.”

I stared at the remote as though a Meet Button would suddenly illuminate. When that didn’t happen, I tossed the remote like a hot potato to his side of the bed. “Why don’t you do it, baby, since you know what you want.”

The look in his eyes was so unnerving, as though I were really Venutian, while his demeanor took on a rather Martian-like appearance. His head grew three sizes, his eyes began to bulge and his skin turned the color of algaed water. He swung a long, flailing green tentacle to the bed to swoop up the remote. With the suction-cupped tip another tentacle, he poked the remote until there was no more sound to be heard.

We stayed in silence for what seemed like an eternity, until I finally said, “What did you want me to do?”

“Mute the volume.“

“Oh, I could have done that.”

“You would think so.”