"I'm not liking this conversation," husband says as I pack. "Well, don't you think about it every time you fly?" I ask. "Yes," he says, "a bit."
I've been warning him of the half-put away Christmas in the basement, the recycling that's only semi-sorted in the garage, the pieces of this project and that, and oh, my messy office; all things I meant to tidy yesterday, today, last week.
"But I'll be home lickety-split," I say. Him: "You better."