We'd met on the back porch for coffee, but had happened to meander back to the bedroom at the same time.
I checked my cell phone to see if anyone had called, he brushed his teeth.
"Here, " he said as he walked around the other side of the bed, "I'll help you make this."
For over two decades, I've been the designated bed-maker. I don't mind it, it's my thing I do. I'm probably the only one in my house who can't stand an unmade bed, it will call to me. . .
"Thanks!" I said, meanwhile thinking to myself, "I love this guy!"
We pulled up sheet, blanket, spread. Then we collected pillows.
"Your pillow's wrong, flip it over please," he gave me "the look," so I explained, "You have to have the seams in the middle so we don't fight."
"That's silly. . ." he responded, but flipped the pillow anyway.
"No, I'm serious. I think that's what happened to my parents: faulty pillow placement!"
"That's just an old wives' tale!" he giggled.
"Well, how do you think I got to be an old wife?!"
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