It’s not even 8 a.m. and Claus and I drive together to drop Olivia off at school. On the way home, I start telling him – OK, complaining about – lady business. Well, it starts as “telling” but as I talk, I get worked up with and about hormones, and it would not be unfair to use the verb “complaining” towards the end of this
monologue tirade statement.
I look over and I see his eyes glazing over, and it makes me self-aware again. “Oh, sorry. I’m sure you really wanted to hear about this first thing in the morning, right?”
“Yeah. That was my goal for today,” he utters, as he pulls the car into the garage. He neatly slides my side up against the wall with three inches of clearance, so when I go to open the door, I can’t.
“Hey! Did you do this on purpose?” I ask, as he is walking into the house already.
“Trap you in the car so you can’t come in the house and complain more?” he says while politely returning to the driver’s seat to move the car. “Of course not.”
I don’t know. I’m still a little suspicious.