It was 6:30. She was awake, because she had to take the puppy out to potty. It made her grouchy.
"Where's the second bag of bark pieces? I just nearly slipped on my arse in the mud!" she yelled from the kitchen.
"Where's the what?" he said.
"THE BARK!" she barked.
"With the wood," he yawn-yelled, from bed.
"What?" she said.
"The wood," he said.
"It's not with the wood!" she snapped. "I've just been there!"
"It is," he yawned, rolling over.
Ten minutes later, she came into the bedroom, stomping in that way that meant only one thing: she was in Housework mode.
His defense radar bleeped him a subconscious warning.
"It was with the woodpile outside," she huffed.
"I said with the wood. You just don't listen to me," he grumbled.
It was ON.
"Don't listen? You're right, I don't listen. Because I make some innocent comment being proud of the fact that I get the Schrodinger's Cat reference on some silly program on the telly and you launch into a detailed explanation and then blab on about the related Split Ends theory and you go on and on and on and this stupid theory is misleading because it has absolutely no useful advice for hair care and my brain just goes onto standby for it's own self-preservation!"
"Don't play dumb with me," he laughed, pulling her back to bed. "You get everything I talk about. And it was the Single Slit theory."
"Disgusting!" she gasped. "Scientists are obsessed with their penises!"
"I wish you were a scientist, then," he joked, pulling her closer.
"Oh, shut up," she giggled, and the conversation ended.