Under The Sink, Obviously

While eating breakfast (just plain old crepes topped with forty seven strawberries, for those of you who'll email me about it) I sighed a big sigh and Andrew asked if it was because he'd slung his wet towel over the end of the bed. Along with four business shirts that need to be dry cleaned, two pairs of athletic shorts and partridge in a pear tree.



"Yes. It's a repeat offense."

"Well, you do it, too!"

"I do not fling wet and dirty clothing all over the place."

"But you don't put things away either. That's why you're always losing stuff."

I pause. Because of the way that he said it, and because both of us know that I can sniff when a fallen eyelash has been relocated in this house, it's an obsessive compulsive trait that my husband is well aware of.

"Like, this morning I searched for two hours before finding the new nozzle for the hose, where I finally uncovered it in a place you'll never guess -- where you put it -- and it was like traveling into the depths of hell and back to recover it," he said dramatically.

"It was under the sink where I told you I put it."

Silence.

"I'd like to point out that this should also prove that the available area of your pillow is not directly proportionate to the amount or quality of sleep that you receive. Let me know if you have any other questions."