Puzzling #SOL24 29/31

Someone – I think it was Heidi Allum – recommended Julie Otsuka’s novel The Swimmers early in this challenge. I got it from the library this week, and have found the writing fascinating, though I’m not 100% sure I love the novel itself. Still, when I sat down to write this morning, I could feel the way Otsuka’s style was influencing mine, so I went with it. 

***

You see the puzzles in an online ad. You have seen them before, but this time you click because they are, supposedly, on clearance. You tell yourself that you will buy one only because your husband’s birthday is coming up and he likes puzzles. You tell yourself that you will check the prices and the comments to make sure the company is legitimate, but you know the truth: you will buy one, and it will be for you. To hide this, you buy more than one.

The puzzles arrive on your husband’s birthday, and he pretends to be delighted. You show him that they are wooden. You show him the way the pieces are shaped like animals and other objects. You tell him that they are not rectangular but rather come together to create the shape of the thing you are piecing together – a butterfly, a maple leaf, a turtle. He says thank you and gives you a kiss.

That night, when you come downstairs to plug in your phone and start the dishwasher, you decide to start the puzzle that you have decided is “yours.” The butterfly. You tell yourself that you just want to get a few pieces together. You tell yourself that you just want to get a feel for it and that this will help you fall asleep. After all, you know you how bad blue light is for your sleep. You remind yourself that it is a long weekend. You do all of this because you know how you are with puzzles. Obsessive. Before you even open the box, you know that you will not go to sleep anytime soon.

You do not go to sleep anytime soon. The pieces are light but sturdy and you like their smooth feel, so different from the cardboard you are used to. The lack of obvious edge pieces fascinates you, as do the odd shapes and the way the pieces fit together. You realize that you cannot use many of your standby puzzle strategies. Slowly, you discover new ways of finding matches. When you look up, it is well after midnight. You have only managed to put together a tiny portion of the relatively small puzzle. Reluctantly, you go to bed.

Your husband gets up first in the morning and walks the dog. You sleep in because you were up so late, puzzling. When you come downstairs, still in your nightgown, you put water on to boil, then sit at the kitchen island to see if you can find another matching piece. Some time later, you remember to make the tea.

You go through the stages of puzzling. You get into a rhythm of finding matches, and then you get stuck. You worry that perhaps the company has sent a defective box: surely all the pieces cannot be here. There simply are not enough to create the promised outcome. You walk away for a few minutes, then return to see the puzzle anew. Aha! These two entire sections fit together. You go through another productive period and another period of frustration. Your son wakes up and helps for a few minutes, then wanders off. Your husband comes in and works with you, gently teasing you about your obsessive nature. At one point, disgusted, you decide you will never finish and walk away. But of course you return.

You neglect to fold the laundry. You know that you don’t want to fold the laundry anyway and the puzzle is just an excuse. Again, you reach a point where you are certain some pieces are missing. Then you decide that maybe, just maybe, two parts of the butterfly’s wings are reversed. Carefully, you slide them along the surface, keeping all the bits together, hoping that this will set things right.

Success! You are on a roll! Your husband comes in and reminds you told him about several things you wanted to accomplish today. None of them were this puzzle. He reminds you that you have plans this afternoon. There are so few pieces left that you are reluctant to leave, but you do because you know he is right. Then, just as you begin to write, he appears at the living room door. 

“Love,” he says, “I think you can finish it in the next five minutes.” He laughs at how you light up. In the kitchen, you see that he has placed just a few more pieces for you. Now you can see how easily the last ten or so pieces will come together. With only the tiniest bit of turning pieces one way, and then the other, you place all the pieces. Your husband threatens to place to the last piece. You glare at him and ask how much he likes being married, which makes him laugh again.

You place the last piece and say, “I love it!” and he smiles at your pleasure. 

You take a picture. You know that you will take the puzzle apart almost right away and gift it to someone else. You are simultaneously pleased with this tiny accomplishment and embarrassed by the pleasure it brings you. You know you will write about this. You know that this is love.