John and I have the ability to battle without saying a word. A test of wills so strong, we stay silent, both knowing that should we say something the volume of the fight will scare the kids and neighbours. Quite often these silent feuds will go on for weeks or months, each side refusing to give in.
Once, leftover turkey stayed in the fridge for months. We had it for Thanksgiving and it finally got thrown out somewhere near Valentine's Day. It sat in the back of the fridge, pitifully covered in aluminum foil. It stayed surprisingly scent free, but that has more to do with the layer of fuzz on it than anything. I saw that dish every single time I opened the fridge, so I know he did too.
When I saw it I would mutter "Fucking turkey. I'm not throwing it out. I cooked the damn thing!"
When John saw it, I could see it in his eyes. "I mean, if you cook it, throw it out!"
So it went. One day I opened the fridge and it was gone. I'm sure my Mom or the kids threw it out, because had John done it, I would have heard about it. You can be sure of that.
And now we have ... the towel.
I'm not sure who put it on the line or exactly when. It's been there at least a week. John probably found it under the deck and put it up there to dry off. We've had rain at least three times since it's been up, so it's not only still wet, but it's probably mouldy too. Not to mention that it used to be a beautiful shade of peach. Now it's sort of drab with a white patch in the middle, discoloured by the sun I presume.
I refuse to take it down. In fact, when I hung sheets on the line I pulled the towel toward me, as if to take it off. Then I hung the sheets next to it and walked back in the house. Later that afternoon John called me and said "When you take down the sheets will you take down the towel?"
"Nope" was all I replied. And I didn't. It's still out there on the line.
The argument that comes out of this one just might be legendary. Stay tuned!
