It had gone on long enough.
But because I am the soul of tact—and also the soul of discretion, andalsoalso the soul of wit—I decided the indirect route would be the best one.
“Gee,” I said.“Is it really my turn to do the dishes again?”
“Uh huh,” Bobby said as he scrolled.
“Already?”
This time, it wasn’t even words—it was one of those I’m-on-my-phone sounds that meant a general affirmation to whatever I’d just said.
“I wonder what Fox is doing,” I said.
Nothing.
“I said, I wonder what Fox is doing.”
Bobby reached over and turned on the water.
I turned it off.“They’re probably not that busy.”
Bobby turned the water on again.
I turned it off.
“They’re never busy, as a matter of fact.They’re probably just relaxing.You know, the way they do after every meal.”
Bobby looked up from his phone with a puzzled expression.
“Golly,” I said—and winced internally, because that might have been overdoing it a tad.“They might even be lying in the hall again, staring at the wallpaper.”
Bobby’s brows drew together.
This was it.The message was finally landing.
And then he turned the water on again.“You’ve got to let it warm up, babe.”
Okay.The indirect method wasn’t working.
I went for full-on Machiavellian.“It’s funny, because I swear I heard Keme saying something about how it was Fox’s turn to do the dishes.”
“It’s not,” Bobby said in the voice he uses when he’s reading about—of all things—soccer.
“Gee.”I winced again; I couldn’t seem to knock it off.“Funny thing, though.Now that you mention it, I guess you’re right.It’snotFox’s turn, is it?”
“Nope.It’s yours.
“Itneverseems to be Fox’s turn.”
“The water’s warm, babe.You don’t want to waste it.”
And then HE HANDED ME A PLATE.
I said some words.
And then I said some more words.
And if Bobby had been anything like my mom when she’d been method-acting as a 1950s suburban housewife (it was for a book; don’t ask), he would have washed my mouth out with soap.
