And now, a small slice of cheese from the deli counter of my marriage: Morrison and I are in the kitchen, or our room, or really any room of the house and any time of day during which I am burning with self-consciousness, feeling like I look like a post-partum potato, which in fact occurs multiple times a day. Morrison’s eyes flick to me, or near me, for maybe a second.
Me: why’re you looking at me like that? Do I look weird?
Morrison: ….I’m not looking at you.
Me: WHY AREN’T YOU LOOKING AT ME? DO I LOOK WEIRD?