Men are dumb.

"Don't forget your laundry." It was piled high on a chair.

The Guy nodded, absorbed in his laptop. I climbed over him to head towards the stairs. "I'll remember my laundry," he said.

I have been married for two years now. I have been living with The Guy for five. One does not live with a man for that long without learning a few things about him. "Don't forget to put away your laundry," I said sharply.

He started to swear.

I brushed my teeth, changed my clothes, and headed to the bedroom to find the Guy already ensconced in the bed. It is a rule in our household that the last person into bed is responsible for turning off the lights. Despite the fact that this is, really, one of the most unbelievably trivial chores imaginable, the Guy will go to inordinate lengths to avoid doing it. He will spot me approaching and dive into bed with his street clothes on, then thrash about in the covers in an attempt to change without getting up. He will bring his toothbrush with him and stare up at the ceiling, triumphantly In Bed First without considering the consequences of going to bed with your mouth full of bristles and toothpaste. He will attempt to lock me out of the bedroom so he can finish his nightly rituals first and burrow under the sheets before I can get there.

He was already reading by nightlight. I climbed into the bed and glanced at the dresser, aware that something was ... off. The second drawer from the bottom was sticking out. Of course. It would've been difficult to close, piled two drawers high with folded clothes: the tower of his clean laundry, perfectly preserved. He'd put them away, all right. I hadn't told him to put them into individual drawers and close them.

"What's this?" I demanded, and pointed at the mess. "What the hell is this?"

The Guy didn't even bother looking at it. "Al fresco?"

There was a small silence.

The Guy kept reading. It was a sham. Even in profile he looked insufferably smug.

Men.