She was in the kitchen attempting to make potato salad. The security strip on the new mayo jar was giving her a hard time.
“Ouch!” She yelled, then added, “I am out here in the kitchen poking holes in myself with sharp objects.”
He sat on the couch watching the baseball game and didn’t look up. “That isn’t an activity I would recommend,” he said.
“There is blood leaking out of me,” she said.
“You’ve proven my point,” he said, still without looking up.
“Hrumph!” She grumbled, and wrapped a bit of paper towel around her thumb and went on about her work.
Later, she sat beside him on the couch and reached for her laptop. She had removed the paper towel and washed and dried her hand, noting nothing amiss; but with just a bit of typing, the cut on her thumb reopened. “Look,” she said, shoving her hand in his face, “Blood!”
He glanced at her thumb, gave her that look over the top of his glasses and said, “Get a Band-Aid.”
She looked at him in a perplexed kind of “thinking it over” sort of way and queried, “Band-Aid?”
“That is what most people do when they have a cut,” he answered.
“But –” she waved her finger for maximum blood display, “– if I cover it up with a Band-Aid, how will I get any sympathy? Not,” she said pointedly, “that I am getting much sympathy as it is.”
He smirked at her and said, “I don’t know why but there is a Band-Aid on the piano. Get it and paste it on your hand.”
She said, “I am waiting for sympathy.”
He said, “You can put the Band-Aid on so you’ll have something to do while you wait.”