The Start of the Story by 
"Pull the plug already!" Gary growled.
"I can't," Jody whimpered.
"Stop holding onto hope when there's nothing left." His head dropped to hands as he leaned against the metal wall.
Jody looked towards the bathtub. Sitting amongst the bubbles floated her favorite bubble bath bottle that had been knocked over where the contents had flowed freely into the old, lukewarm water from their son's bath.
"But if I pull the plug, then it's really all gone...I can never get it back."
Gary tramped against the wooden floor towards the bathtub determination etched into his eyes.
"No!" Jody yelled throwing herself in front of him.
His hands clasped her shoulders, and he gave her a minute to chill, as much as a stubborn Midwestern farm girl of Germanic descent could ever chill in the face of such cataclysmic waste. Her beloved bubble bath with the scent of violets, from that little store in that little town on their honeymoon. The old man who collected flowers and bottled his own perfumes. How many violets did those gnarled fingers have to pick to distill the essence into a one-ounce bottle? The bubble bath was diluted, so the precious scent would go farther and last longer.
Jody sniffed, turning her head to give the tub a sidelong glance, like it was her dearly beloved aunt in the mortuary, or something.
Gary slipped out.
Jody clenched her fists. She wanted to punch his lights out for turning his back on that son of theirs.
"A dull child gives you no grief," she'd heard in her childhood--and no clue what it meant until children too smart for her own good came into her world. Little Gregor still needed a footstool to reach the bathroom sink, but he could climb a curtain like a monkey, or pull out drawers to use as steps. They knew all about baby-proofing, but the offspring of engineers were resourceful. Jenna at age one was quicker to unlatch the baby gates than she was. At three, she could program a computer--according to Gary, anyway. He taught their children all that computer-stuff that made her feel like an alien who lacked the requisite DNA or neural wiring to comprehend.
He also taught them how to throw things away. Empty bottles were to be recycled, not upcycled or re-purposed. As if it was her fault guys didn't read labels, or have the sense of smell women had, and so Gary had assembled a beautiful salad, only to sprinkle it full of 20-Mule Team Borax. He couldn't see that not a word of "Parmesan Cheese" remained, that a tacky label had been taped around the plastic container, that he had to fetch it from the edge of the laundry room sink, not the pantry? "But you're always leaving things there on your way in from grocery shopping," he'd whimpered in his own very-lame defense.
Jody stared at the bottle with the faded violets peeling off the label, sinking like the Titanic to a watery grave. The bubbles quietly popped, but the scent of violets lingered. What was that thing Dear Abby said? Forgiveness is like the violet crushed under the boot sole? Whatever. If she figured that one out, she might forgive Gregor. He was just the son of an engineer, after all, unschooled in the finer art of conserving things. She might even forgive Gary, for making fun of her hoarding and recycling and The Borax Incident. Which was not her fault.
A hand on her shoulder alerted her to Gary's return. She had no idea how long he'd left her standing there, inconsolable, in shock and awe over the waste of the bubble bath she'd so carefully apportioned, it had lasted five years.
"Honey."
Uh-oh. They never called each other "honey" or any other endearment, unless something sinister was imminent.
"Mark Twain," he said. "Not Dear Abby. It was on the history channel. 'Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.' So." Gary shifted his feet. "There's, uh, a lot of that in the air here. Go easy on Gregor."
"What?" Jody blinked. He was getting to be a mind reader. "Did I say I wanted to throttle him or something?"
"Or something." Gary gave her that look, an almost pitying look, with his head cocked to one side.
Now she was really dreading whatever he had come back to say.
"I was saving this," he said, "for the day your first bottle ran dry. I thought that would be on our first anniversary."
He reached a hand from behind his back and held up a bottle of bubble both--an identical bottle--pristine, untouched--of violet bubble bath from the little old man in France.
"Hell," he said. "I was starting to think you'd make me wait until our 25th wedding anniversary to give this to you, the way you dole that stuff out like it's liquid gold."
Jody gasped, hands flying to cover her mouth, then flung out her arms for a hug, but Gary stepped back. "Oh no, no, I'm setting this in a safe place before you send your new precious sailing to the tile floor."
He set the bottle on the highest shelf and wrapped her in his arms.
A dull child gives you no grief--and a precious child, like his clever father, gives you no end of smiles and surprises.
I'm hitting the "Post" button now**, unedited, no backward glance!
And it was closer to 20 minutes this time. Later, I will likely come back and revise.
Or not.
Thank you, 
, 
, and
for this prompt. As always, it's been fun!
Until next time,
Keangaroo
because Kean sounds like Kane (not keen, hint, hint)
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