10:30 pm. (The time is important because my contract CLEARLY STATES that I am not responsible for anything past nine pm.*)
Husband is downstairs.
I am upstairs. In bed. Reading this beauty:
In other words, it’s Don’t Hecking Bother Me o’clock. Inspector Gamache and I are working.
And so it begins.
Husband, from downstairs, aka So Very Far Away: HOOONNNNNNEEEEEEY?
Me: *burrows down deeper under covers and pretends I don’t exist. Existentialism at ten thirty. It can happen.
Me: *Solidly convinced Inspector Gamache would never do this to HIS wife.
Husband: WHERE ARE THE HANGERS?
Me: *Actually sort of confused. What’s this sudden need for hangers at such a late hour? Are we making a mobile? Also, aren’t hangers in closets? Do we not have closets? Could we first agree that our closets are mostly upstairs and that means that husband will have to WALK UP STAIRS to find hangers that are all in their own little homes. In the closets. And that actually, what he is REALLY saying to me, at ten thirty at night is:
WILL YOU BRING ME SOME HANGERS?
Me: The HANGERS are in your CLOSET.
Me: YOUR CLOSET.
HUSBAND: WHAT’S A CLOSET?
ME: O FOR THE LOVE OF PETE AND ALL THINGS HOLY THEY ARE UP HERE JUST WILL YOU FOR GOODNESS GRAVY I CANT YOU JUST CANT I SERIOUSLY
Husband: Are you upset?
Now, dear reader, I’m sure you will ask. Did I get up out of my bed and go get the hangers? And then did I lay them gently at the feet of my husband and say, “Here, my love. My darling. These hangers I bring to you are a symbol of my devotion. You are my everything. Closets are where you put your clothes. You are just so attractive right now. Take me now, my darling, right here amongst ALL. THESE. HANGERS.”
It shall remain a mystery.
(Probably not tho.)