It bores me

“You lazy bum, get your head out of that crossword puzzle,” Martha spat out. “We have to talk about yesterday.”

George was trying to find a 5-letter French word for book. Admittedly, his French had become rusty since leaving Paris back in ’79, but he still fashioned himself an expert on the language and culture. He looked up at his wife.

“What is it, my dear?” He turned his attention back to his crossword, but his reading glasses slid down his nose and onto the newspaper. He retrieved them.

“I said, get your head out of that puzzle and listen to me when I’m talking to you. You sat in the living room yesterday reading TV Guide all afternoon at my sister’s house. And you barely said two words all afternoon to Herbie. He’s starting to think you don’t like him.”

Livre, he realized – the 5-letter French word for book. “That’s silly. He’s a good enough sort for me,” George said at some point between filling in the V and the R. Next clue – a 6-letter word for avoidance.

Martha came over to his chair and stood right in front of him, hands on hips. George looked up for a second. If this were a movie, she’d be Shelley Winters and he’d be Ernest Borgnine.

“You have to promise me,” Martha said, “that the next time we spend time with my family, you pay more attention to Herbie. And to my sister, too. They’re beginning to think you don’t like them.”

“All right, Martha, whatever you say,” he said. He turned his full attention to the puzzle. The 6-letter word for avoidance popped into his head.