It’s 5:45 a.m. My wife and I are sleeping in bed, as it is our preferred spot over the floor or in the closet. There is a sound. I sit up and say, “What was that?” My wife responds that she didn’t know. It was apparently a rhythmic sound. Like buttons in the clothes dryer. Or someone scratching on the screen.
She gets up and moves through the darkened house to check on the sound. I go back to sleep.
At least this is what I am told. I have no recollection of these events. For all I know, it is a story she made up to make me feel overtly guilty for sending her into the arms of some serial killer who attracts his victims by running their dryers filled with sweaters and other delicates that should really be left to hang dry.
But I slept. I find this odd.
I’m a paranoid person. I wake up when the wind changes directions. At bed time I lock all the doors and check the windows three times and then get up at 2 a.m. to double check their securness. I hear spiders scampering up the silk of their webs in the neighbor’s attic. And somehow, my sense of need to create a secure home site was not active this morning when I sent my poor wife out to protect me from the onslaught of whatever the scratching horror was.
I hereby promise to be a stronger male in the future.
But right now I have to call my wife to kill this weird bug crawling across the floor. It’s icky. And it’s looking at me funny.
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