“It’s for the levy,” I explain, holding up the sealed ballot envelopes that have just arrived in the mail. “They want to increase the fire levy limits,” I continue, walking into the kitchen a moment later with my bags full of newly-purchased groceries, “which basically means they want to be able to ask for a higher percentage of our property taxes.”
I don’t get particularly passionate about politics, but I pay close attention to what’s happening locally and am well aware of what the Actual Needs are (as opposed to the Actual Wants) in my area, and being an island dweller has made me hyper-alert to those two forces of nature that can both nurture and destroy: (1) Water, and (2) Fire.
“Go on,” he says.
So we maneuver around each other – him, cooking; me, putting groceries away – in the kitchen and, in as brief a way as possible, I explain the issue: the current levy and its limitations, the reasonable and justified request to lift the levy cap, the staffing, equipment, and maintenance needs as they currently stand, and the negligible (twenty-five more cents per $1,000 of total property taxes collected – which means we’d pay approximately $1.75 more in taxes per year) cost to us, personally, as voting tax payers.
I close the door to the refrigerator after unloading the last of my foodstuffs, and turn to find him, spatula in hand, facing me with a frighteningly fascinated look on his face.
“You,” he says, the word a low growl in his throat.
“Uhhh…”
“Your brain,” he continues, advancing across the hardwood expanse between us with a wicked gleam in his eye.
Unsure where this is coming from – but fairly sure where it’s going, based on his throaty growl and fuck-me expression – I inch sideways, toward the exit to the dining area, prepared to sprint toward the bedroom in the event his switch gets flipped.
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