It's been one of those mornings, but I'm trying to get a few things done outside anyway. Trimming and deadheading plants, emptying the remnants of ice chest contents from the weekend's "last" barbecue of summer (not really, I hope), that sort of thing. We've had a terrible heatwave, and the air is blissfully cool and breezy.
I come back inside, looking for my dear husband. He was just with me a minute ago, but now the house is strangely quiet. I check the bedroom. Perhaps he's taking a nap? Nope, not there. I know I haven't heard the front door alarm go off, and I've been right next to the back door. So I'm not really nervous; however, I'm wondering what he might be up to, if you know what I mean. If you have a toddler or you're on this journey at your place, too, you know just what I mean.
"Harry, where are you?" I say, loud enough to be heard.
"Watching down here," he responds, his voice wafting up the stairs from the Man Cave. That could mean pretty much anything.
I hurry down the stairs, as I've just a few minutes ago returned some things to the Man Cave that somehow had found their way to the bedroom. I don't really want to repeat that process right now and am hoping to circumvent further redecorating efforts.
I round the corner into the Man Cave. He is sitting on the couch, looking quite comfortable and pleased with himself as he sweeps his hands through the air in the direction of the television. Voila. The half-smile on his face says, "See? I'm watching television."
But the television is not on. He is seeing his reflection. Alrighty, then. Enjoy the show, my sweet.
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