There are, he pontificates, addressing the air around him, certain things Mrs Fever is allergic to. With a nod to the kitties, who are both staring up at Daddy with adoring looks and hanging on his every word, Mr Fever continues. She breaks out in hives, for example, he expounds, at the very thought of cleaning out the cat box.
With a muffled laugh (my head is under the pillow), I interrupt his conversation with the ether. Cleaning up kitty poo, I remind him, is the job of the Smotch.
Read the marriage contract, I admonish with a cheeky grin. It’s in the fine print.
He looks about the room, contemplating our division of household responsibilites for a moment, then directs his gaze to me. And what, exactly, is your job?
To remind you to clean out the cat box.
You are such a nerd.
I know. But I look sexy in my glasses.
Especially, he adds (with a knowing look and a wiggling brow), when your glasses are the only thing you’re wearing.