"I need to go to bed," he said, as he was lying down on the bed, magazine in hand. I was folding clothes still and it was 10 o'clock.
"Really?!" I said sharply, "please don't talk." I put down a folded washcloth. I was hoping to play maybe ONE chord on my guitar before hitting the pillow.
"What?!" he said behind his retro-cool glasses.
I mumbled to myself.
"I got a running commentary on my songs today," I said, putting two socks together.
"Well, apparently I shriek when I sing, but that is probably good because apparently Sarah McLachlan does the same thing in her estimation."
"What?! How do you shriek?" He nearly jumped out of the bed.
"Gee, I don't know. I sing high sometimes."
"And that one song she doesn't like because she thought it was annoying how I repeated stuff over and over. It is a liturgical song, so that's the point. You do that, you know? But I expected her to not like it---I mean, the music itself, because.... she has questionable taste in music."
"What does she like?"
"Rod Stewart, Celtic Woman, Celine Dion, Michael Bolton..." I bent down to grab more lovely socks.
"So you rest your case then," he said, opening back up his Books and Culture then wiping his eyes behind his retro-cool glasses.