I’m propped against my pillows, reading Dorothy Sayers and generally adjusting to the fact that morning has arrived (rather sooner than I prefer) regardless that my willingness to arise (or arouse, for that matter) will be a long time coming, when into my tenuous hold on concentration, a sound breaks.
Footfalls (and creaking ankles ~ aging is not always subtle; sometimes it announces itself loudly) herald my spouse’s arrival at the edge of my bed, and when I look up, it is to see him standing to my right, holding a short length of nautical rope in his hands and grinning maniacally.
I don’t say anything – I don’t have to (I rarely do); a quirked brow speaks encyclopedic volumes – I just wait for his jumble of words
“I’vebeenpracticingwithmyeyesclosed”
to come out, then raise my brow – a single brow only, as it’s too damned early in the morning (why in fuck’s name am I awake at 6:17am on a weekend?) to exert any more than the minutest of energies – indicating that he now has my attention and may proceed.
Squinting his eyes shut (it’s adorable, really, and completely ridiculous ~ the man has the enthusiasm of a toddler on cane sugar and the facial dexterity of a pre-Hollywood vaudevillian), he does some sort of fiddle-de-dee with his fingertips to produce a knot in the rope then opens his eyes.
“. . .” is about all the response I can muster. (What is this about, exactly? And why am I on the receiving end of this ungodly-early-hour demonstration of digital dexterity?) (And come to think of it… Aren’t there better things he could be doing with his fingers right now?)
(I don’t say those things, obviously. I just think them.)
(With my eyebrow arched in his general direction.)
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