I’m propped up against my pillows, buried under four layers of comfy covers, feeling cozy and reading Georgette Heyer, when he appears at my bedside.
In his own uniquely amorous way, he sets about giving me ‘buggages’ (we add -age to any and all words, willy-nilly, so huggage and buggage are a thing in the Fever household), which consist of a stream of rambling words and a bit of tuck-in pat-petting of my blanket-burrito’ed body while I try mightily to keep up the pretense of reading.
Something he’s just said – I couldn’t tell you what – while he’s lavishing this oddly-Smotchy attention on me triggers a thought, and I ask (apropos of nothing):
“Did you flip the laundry?”
(Yes, I’m hugely romantic. He’s loving on me and I think of laundry. You don’t have to tell me; I already know.)
He looks at me.
(You know the look. The Seriously? I’m loving on you and you’re thinking of laundry? look.) (Or maybe you don’t know. If not: feel free to imagine.)
I look back with a raised eyebrow.
“Did I flip the laundry?” he repeats.
“Yes. Did you flip it?”
Turning his body in the direction of the bedroom door — through which he would have to exit to flip said laundry from the washer into the dryer — he staunchly salutes the ‘laundry’.
With the flip of his middle finger.
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