Putting groceries away in the refrigerator Thursday night and Stuart comes up behind me, puts his hands on my hips. I don’t know why, but when he does something like that, it makes me feel smaller than I am. Maybe that’s why I am with him.
I turned around and kissed him. Not a peck- not a high school make out session. . . a Goldie Locks just right snog especially when you are in the middle of doing things and you would rather not be interrupted and you know he is in the middle of things and he won’t let you try to interrupt him.
He tasted of beer.
I pulled away. Sniffed his lips, scrunched up my face with the weight of the calculation. . . “One and a half beers.”
Stuart was gobsmacked.
“How did you do that?!”
I shrugged.
It was a lucky guess with a mixture of Sherlock Holmsing. His breath didn’t reek like it does when he has been in the pub for 13 hours. I knew about the time he came home. I knew the relative time it takes him to drink a pint, then I divided that by 3.14159 and voila the answer was 1.5.
He left a half hour after that and met a friend in a pub. I didn’t do the maths when he came home but I’m inferring a total of seven.
I didn’t check my calculations however and I stayed up until two polishing off a bottle of wine while he went to bed. When I did get to bed I had strange dreams that I can’t remember. In the morning Stuart told me that I was chattering in my sleep.
“What did I say?”
“I don’t know. I was sleeping.”
I guess I should be happy I didn’t do any neked’ sleepwalking . . .
