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George and I were engaged in lively conversation when he stopped talking for a moment and retrieved his white no-frills hanky out of his back pocket.  Unfolding it, he vigorously blew his nose.  I continued to talk without skipping a beat.

After several good snorts, he folded the hanky right on the creases, again and again, until it was returned to its perfect square.  He put it in his right hand and slid it down into his back pocket.

When he looked up at me, I had become mute.  My mouth was agape.  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, and it showed on my face.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Do you always fold your hanky like that after you blow your nose?”

“Yes.  Is that a problem?”

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

“After twenty-five years of married life I had no idea you folded your hanky back up like that after blowing your nose.”

“So?”

“So, I’m sorry to tell you that when I’m doing laundry and find the hanky so neatly folded in your back pocket, I assume it hasn’t been used and I simply put it back in your drawer without washing it.”

Now it was George’s turn to stand with his mouth agape.  After a couple of beats passed, he responded, “No wonder I always have so much trouble getting my glasses clean.”

Charlene Ann Baumbich, Mama Said There’d Be Days Like This, But She Never Said Just How Many

I’m So Glad You Told Me What I Didn’t Want to Hear, Barbara Johnson, page 35, 36