Another four a.m. Thursday. My head is uncovered, I am kissed and hear a whisper, "You don’t have to get up yet. Where are my boots?"
Men cannot find things. Women can. I suggest a couple places to look then give up and groggily go out to the kitchen, where he points to the floor by the door where they should be. Men do this all the time. Show you the empty space where they think something should be because that’s where they last remember seeing them, or got used to seeing them. I stare at the empty spot. Nope, I don’t see them there either.
I send him out to look in the garage, and tell him to check his car, since I recall seeing him carrying them with him to work last week when a mid-day snowstorm threatened. I head down the cellar, knowing they’re probably in the car, but just to show my enthusiastic assistance in the search.
He comes back inside just as I’m topping the stairs to the kitchen. "They were in the car. Sorry," he says. I smile smugly but say nothing. "I’m going to make your lunch and go back to bed," I tell him. "Wake me when you leave."
He wakes me at five am to tell me the snowblower ran out of steam on a narrow section of driveway, and tells me to go back to sleep. I do.
I wake at six am. He is gone. His lunch is on the kitchen counter.