It was a hot, sticky Saturday in July and I was dying from the heat. As I toiled to get dinner ready on time, I looked longingly at the two frosty glasses of iced tea sitting on the kitchen counter. How I wished I could get something cold to drink for myself! But I didn’t dare – not even a sip of tap water. I hadn’t asked permission.

It was at least 90 degrees outside, but with the three burners going on the stove, it must have been at least 20 degrees hotter in the kitchen. But Monica and Randy wanted dinner ready at 6:30 sharp, so there was no time to concern myself with the temperature.

I used my apron to wipe the sweat off my face, then placed the iced teas on a serving tray. As I walked carefully outside to the pool, I saw Monica lying on a chaise lounge, soaking up the last rays of the slowly sinking sun. Randy reclined on his chaise, reading a book.

I served Monica first. Her eyes were closed as I placed her drink on the table beside her. She didn’t notice me. I walked over to Randy and respectfully set his drink in front of him.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” I announced to my wife and her lover. “Would you care to eat out here or in the dining room?”

They both totally ignored me. For about three minutes, I stood there patiently, unsure whether to ask the question again or to leave and continue to prepare their dinner. As they both relaxed, meditating in the sun’s rays, I realized once again how insignificant I was to them: they didn’t even consider me important enough to bother answering.

Finally, I cleared my throat and asked again: “um, excuse me, but would where would you like your dinner to be served? Here or in the dining room?”

Monica shielded her eyes from the setting sun and looked up at me, annoyed. “Ask Randy, I don’t care.”

Randy stretched and yawned (tired from another rough day of lying around by the pool!) With a casual wave of his hand, he said, “I think I’d rather eat in the dining room tonight.”

I bowed slightly to Randy as I made my retreat. “Yes, sir, everything will be ready in about 15 minutes.”

Neither Monica nor Randy answered me as I turned and hurried back to the kitchen.

I would have to rush if I was to have dinner ready on time.

Like a cyclone, I swirled about the steamy kitchen, applying the finishing touches on Monica and Randy’s evening meal. Cracked crab, with chocolate mousse for desert. I suddenly realized how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten since my meager breakfast, which consisted of a grapefruit and a glass of water.