Ruffled


My wife usually makes the coffee, though she doesn’t drink it. Therefore, I don’t have much to do with the process unless the pot runs dry or batching for a few days.

Then she shouted from the kitchen yesterday morning.

“Honey, do you know where the coffee filters are?” she asks.

“No,” I answer.

“Are you sure,” she said. “You were the last to make coffee.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m wearing them like a ruffled collar that Sir Walter Raleigh might have worn in the Elizabethan Era,” I answered.

A long pause followed.

“Found them,” she returned, sounding a little ruffled.

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