The following genuine and unedited short dialogue occurred between CJ and I last night. I was in the ensuite brushing my teeth and he had just gotten into bed after having a shower.
S What happened to the bathroom floor?
CJ It’s collateral damage, it got hit by friendly fire. Don’t worry honey, it’s expendable.
I walked the few steps out of the ensuite, through the walk-in closet, toothbrush still whirring in my mouth, to look at him, partly because I still couldn’t quite believe just how he’d managed to flood the bathroom floor after one short shower, and partly because what he’d said in such a straight manner was so funny. I looked at him and almost decorated the curtains with foaming gobs of blue Macleans. He was lying flat in bed, the covers pulled up to his chin. Clamped between his teeth was a steel ruler and scattered over his chest were loose papers covered in hand-drawn diagrams and measurements. His brow was knitted in concentration as he looked at them, the bathroom floor already a distant memory. Despite the still buzzing electric toothbrush in my mouth, I went to say something. I smiled a toothpastey smile at his furrowed brow and changed my mind. I’m learning not to question some of the eccentricities of my geeky genius fiancée. What can you say to a man who’s tucked up in bed with diagrams of your wedding invitations that he’s designed resting on his chest, deep in concentration? It’s adorable. Besides, he’s right, what’s a bathroom floor in the whole scheme of things?
I just love those odd conversations men and women have about things when the difference in the wiring of the brain becomes so wonderfully obvious.