September 3 - Honey, I'm Home

"Honey, I'm home."
Ben walked into the kitchen through the backdoor, an empty cooler slung over one shoulder and a backpack over the other.
"Don't come near me. I reek," he said, giving his wife a peck on the cheek and then carrying the cooler and the backpack down to the basement.
"How are the little ones?" he asked as he got upstairs and went out the backdoor to the Rodeo. "I'm listening," he yelled from outside. "I just want to get this stuff out of here before I take a shower."
He came back a minute later with a sleeping bag, a tent, and a pair of hiking boots, which he took to the basement.
"Hey, whose cars are those?" he called from the basement.
He came back upstairs.
"You OK?" he asked his wife. "You're kind of quiet."
It was the first time he'd really stopped to look at her since he got back. She had a blank and dazed expression he had never seen in their 11 years of marriage.
He looked at her straight on. "Honey? What's wrong? Are you OK?"
She didn't give him any response other than continuing to stare at him. He reached up to massage her shoulders and she flinched away, but then reached up to touch his face, tentatively, like it might be booby trapped.
"My God," she said. "It's really you."
He chuckled unconvincingly, hoping to disarm the situation. "Um, yeah."
He waited for her to say something more, but she didn't. "What's going on? You're being really--" He stopped himself. "Are you OK?"
"You're . . . alive."
He looked at her in disbelief for a few seconds, expecting her to explain herself, but she didn't say anything more. "What are you talking about?" he asked her. "Of course I'm alive." He looked around the room. "Where are the kids?"
A tear formed in her eye and rolled down her cheek.
"Oh my God, you're alive," she said, and then more tears began trickling and then streaming down her face.
"Jesus, Karen." He tried to hug her, but she recoiled.
"Don't touch me," she sobbed. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" She backed away from him, collapsed in the corner, and cried.
A tall man walked in and went over to her. "Karen, are you OK?" He stooped down and put his hand on her shoulder. "Karen, talk to me."
When she didn't respond, he looked at Ben. "What did you do to her?"
"What--? Who the fuck are you?"
"Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm Ben. I'm her husband."
The man looked at Ben like he'd just told him that he was the Antichrist. Then he returned to trying to comfort Karen.
"Hey!" yelled Ben. "I asked you a question, asshole. Who the fuck are you?"
He stood up and said, "I'm Dan," with the confidence and defiance one might answer the same question with, 'I'm the governor,' or 'I'm the captain' or 'I'm the CEO.'
"OK Dan, let me rephrase my question," said Ben, stepping toward him. "Who the fuck are you?"
At this Karen stood up. The tears were gone and a smile spread across her face. She took a deep breath. "Dan is in my improv acting group."
Ben looked back and forth between Dan and Karen. Dan smiled and shrugged.
"We're rehearsing a new play here today," she continued.
Another man and two more women came into the kitchen from the living room. They each had a script in their hands.
"And I think we've got the scene down."
Ben looked at his wife for a few more seconds, shook his head, and then went to the fridge to get a beer.
"Honey, I'm so sorry," she said as she hugged him and the rest of her improv group clamored around him and patted his back and clapped.
Ben took a long pull from his beer and then looked at each of them quietly for a second, landing on Karen.
"You assholes," he said, and then after a few seconds he laughed and the tension was broken. Those kinds of moments happen when overly creative former drama majors marry guys that they think go on too many weekend camping trips.