The rest of this planet can just be thankful they are not married to me

Dig is a very calm, cool and collected person.

He never shouts, like me. He never throws himself on the floor, gnashing his teeth, biting carpets, and wailing like I do. His body does not spontaneously burst into an asteroid-sized flaming ball of elemental finger-pointing righteousness, like mine. He is rarely slighted, wounded, and never dramatically heart-broken with exploding theatrical and sacrificial love blood, as I am. (Daily.)

I may collapse, sobbing, overwhelmed, beaten, destroyed. But Dig is always dignified. He remains calm, even under the most emotionally stressful and difficult circumstances. He is a constant. He is rock. He is mountain block. He is granite. He is in Hong Kong.

I stare at his office floor.

I tidy up his paper trail. Just a little bit. Then a little bit more.


Suddenly everything is tidy. And the shredder is full.*

I have never seen granite when it explodes.


* Not really, Dig! Only kidding! About the shredder. Of course it is not full. (I emptied it. Twice.)