After the fiasco at the Amish home in Indiana I wised up.

Packing for a one-nighter at the home of some city relatives, I hid our coffee maker in with our things. This time there’d be electricity. This time I’d not have to bear with a concrete-clogged head until somebody made breakfast.

In the city, we were shown up to a room with packed boxes lining the walls. Books? Off-season clothes? Christmas decorations? (Some people do this, stack things around the edges. I don’t get it.) I looked around for a spare outlet. Inadequate wiring—that’s an old house for you. Well, I would manage.

Alone, stealthily I moved the lamp sitting high up on the dresser to the night table right next to the dresser. (Again, I don’t know what’s wrong with people. Don’t they read in bed? Don’t they need a lamp near?) I pulled the dresser away from the wall, yanked out the clock cord from the outlet the lamp was plugged into, and hooked up my machine. I put a filter in and the ground coffee I’d brought in a baggie. I had a mug along, too, and two creamers from McDonald’s.

I curled up that night in the strange but not slippy-slidey bed, not all that perturbed, next to my sacked-out husband. In the morning, in heightened spirits, I patted the sheets into order, or maybe he did. I moved the furnishings back into place. I buried the coffee maker in our luggage, and the creamer packaging, and the telltale, wet coffee grounds. Had the smell traveled? The hiss of the machine?

No one mentioned anything at breakfast. Maybe the wallpaper, when we left, still had whiffs clinging, but nobody ever said a thing.

(I know. Judgy judgy.)

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