H has a bad habit of asking me, when my eyes are closing for the night, if his clothes are clean. And by this he means, is all his laundry washed, dried, hung, and folded. “If it isn’t washed, it won’t get washed,” I mumbled at 1:15 am this morning.
We had only moments before pulled into our driveway from an away game, stealing into our house quietly as though we were burglars not wanting to alarm the neighbors. And…that alarm would be sounding in less than three hours to wake us in time to be on the road again in the dark hours of early morning. I didn’t think I was going to be functioning too well at an all-day marching festival on a scant three hours of sleep.
“Everything is washed and there is a load in the dryer if you just have to have something out of there.” And with that said, I closed my eyes. Can you tell I wasn’t going to worry about it?
This morning H comes into the living room peering over the mound of clothes he’s holding, still warm from the dryer, and dumps them on the sofa next to me as I’m tying my shoes. “Weren’t there enough clothes in your closet? Did you need something out of here?” I questioned him knowing the majority of his clothing was hanging up.
“I need a pair of slacks,” he said, pulling the one and only pair out of the pile. They were his favorite grey khakis.
Hmmm? Slacks? I don’t believe Andrew would ever call a pair of his pants ‘slacks’, I thought as H headed down the hall to put ‘a press on his slacks’. Andrew would never say that either.