There was a wife who wanted a floor. I asked her what for, she wanted a floor.

“I want a new floor ’cause the carpet is ratty. It’s driving me batty, the carpet’s so ratty. The carpet is ratty ’cause your boots were all muddy. We’re not poor and I want a new floor.”

“New flooring is silly when rain willy-nilly comes through the holes in the roof,” said I.

“So hire then some roof men, we’ll have a new roof then,” said the wife who wanted a floor.

“I know we have money,” I told my wife Honey, “but I’ll not hire it done. I was the young man who followed the plan and built our fine dome as a home. You’re hurting my pride by looking outside for someone to nail shingles on.”

So I built a new roof to please her and patched up the ceiling so that would appease her. It took me two years and a day.

“I’ve forgotten,” I said, “what you had in your head. What was it you wanted them for?”

“What all this is for, I want a new floor. Is something wrong with your brain? The roof was so old, walls were growing black mold. The carpet’s so ratty it’s driving me batty. The carpet was ratty ’cause your boots were so muddy. I’m no fuddy-duddy and we are not poor and the years they fly by and before I die I really would like a new floor.”

“Oh,” I then said, “what you had in your head was just that you wanted a floor. I wish you had said that before.”

Now everyone knows before a floor goes, the ceiling must first painted be. I said that’s for me, but Honey said no, we must hire a pro.

“I can paint it,” I said, “What’s the matter?”

My wife begged to differ. She said “Dear, you splatter,” and told me to call up some painters.

A dutiful husband am I, and never ever would lie. To the painters I spoke but the truth.

“The ceiling’s so high flying squirrels glide by. They have a nest in our dormer. You may feel baffled up three sections of scaffold because the air is so thin. Clouds may form, you’ll need to dress warmer.”

One painter came by to understand why he should think about doing our job. This whiz he got dizzy and a crick in his neck as he gazed up at our ceiling. “I’m busy,” he said, and wished me good luck, which oddly enough I was feeling.

I said I was honest, and am, within bounds, of course. Is not telling my spouse I’m painting the house possible grounds for divorce?

When she was cooking and couldn’t be looking I painted away. When she was gone for a day, when she was distracted, that’s when I acted. For a month and a half she never looked up. Was it luck? Was it magic? Would she love me the more or would it be tragic?

The day finally came and I sat her down.

“I was wondering,” I said to my wife, “what did you say you wanted in life? I can’t recall. Was it a home, happiness, children, a husband who loves you? Money enough, good health in our age? Love and faith? Family warmth?”

“All those I have, and want nothing more,” my spouse replied, “but one little thing: a floor.”

“Look up and behold, woman of mine. The ceiling is painted, the task overcome, the floor that you wanted now can be done.” She looked. She sniffed. She spied some splatter, saw faults and flaws, but no matter.

“Good enough. For us,” said Honey. “But we have money, and if you’re thinking of doing the floor, that is one battle you will not win.”

Time has passed, new battles are won, the wife who wanted a floor now has one. But that, as they say, is a different story.