The Recognition Meter

We've had the "I'm Fine" moment. Probably this week.

We have a Geoff in the fridge. (A starter, a kombucha, a leftover with a name.)

There's a half-finished decorating project that's been "nearly done" for over a year.

One of us thinks "five minutes" is a unit of time. The other has stopped believing them.

There's an unspoken thermostat agreement that one of us is secretly violating.

Someone's mum phones at the most inconvenient possible moment, every time.

We've had a row about a tone, not a sentence.

One of us reads the room. The other reads the literal words.

The bins have, at some point, become a metaphor.

We watch true crime in companionable silence and call it a date night.

One of us makes the tea after every row. Same person. Always.

There's a takeaway night that is sacred. Don't suggest cooking. Don't.

We've had the same argument three times in different costumes.

One of us owns one suit and refers to it as "the suit."

The dishwasher is loaded "wrong," depending on who you ask. Both are right.