Like a Slice of Buttered Toast Falling Buttered-Side Down

I have a small confession. Tiny, really. Inconsequential. But I must let my dastardly deed see the light of day. Air it out like dirty laundry. Cleanse my palate of the bad taste it's left in my mouth.

There was no plan to carry out this inadvertent act of marital sabotage. It was just a happy accident. There I was in the walk-in shower, surveying the items resting on top of the door frame, contemplating why my tube of hair conditioner seems to have become anorexic of late. If she was Jethro Bodine, she would have to tighten her rope belt a couple of knots. I know that Hick has been using it. And he has hardly any hair! He tries to be tricky, flattening out the tube from the bottom. Not like the way he squeezes the toothpaste in the middle. But he can't fool me. I do not use conditioner at that alarming rate.

Funny thing. As I reached for my flattened friend, my hand must have hit Hick's blue disposable razor. That, or Razor suddenly decided he was not good enough for this world any more, and flung himself over the side without having the common courtesy to leave a note.

Upon exiting the shower, I searched for Razor's remains. He was not on the floor. Not shattered, not broken, not bruised. I looked more thoroughly, though I stopped short of calling in a search dog. Razor was a real nowhere man. No part of him was in evidence. I went on about my post-shower business. After dressing and combing my freshly-conditioned hair, I turned to give one last cursory glance toward the shower.

There he was! Razor was in the corner, between the shower and the toilet, up in that ninety-degree angle formed by the shower base and outer bathroom wall. Yes, there he reclined, all smug and camouflaged, his dark blue plastic blending with the pattern of the toilet brush upon which he perched. There. I said it. Hick's razor was laying on top of the toilet brush.

I thought of throwing it away and putting out a new one. They're disposable, you know. Hick would never know the difference. Until he cut his throat with a brand-new razor that he assumed was the broken-in one he had been using. No. Better not subject Hick to a slashed carotid artery. I grabbed Razor between my thumb and forefinger and put him back on top of the shower door. It was a new toilet brush, I'm sure. The tag was still on the handle with one of those plastic thread thingies. I doubt it has even been used yet.

What Hick doesn't know won't hurt him.