This morning, a good while after Lo had caught the bus, it occurred to me that Biggy—usually racing to be the first man in the office--hadn’t kissed me goodbye yet. I was afraid he’d had a heart attack on the toilet, so I ran upstairs to see.
In our room, the weekend sports highlights were blaring on the TV, loud enough for my husband to hear them in the closet, where he stood casually riffling through his drawers, in no big hurry.
“Why are you still here?” I asked him.
“No need to rush into work,” he said. “My big project is going so well, I’m the golden boy.
“Well, don’t forget to drag the garbage to the curb,” I reminded him.
“If I could find some socks that match.”