STORY TIME. Not that anyone cares.

I'm sure you all can imagine what a writer looks like. It isn't hard. You see us in your coffee shops clicking away on our laptops. We're pretending to write when we're actually browsing Twitter.
1/?

But, dear Twitter readers (Tweaders?) - how often have you tried to imagine that writer's spouse?

Here. I'll help you.

Let me set the scene.

It is a beautiful Saturday evening and the children are playing nicely.

2/

Taking advantage of the miraculous peace, A Writer's Husband settles into his chair to relax and play a game. Ah, the life. It is a wonderful one.

And suddenly, A Wild Writer appears! (aha, aha.)

3/

She's in his face with her expectant gaze and hopeful smile, shining brighter than Edward in his Twilight glory. "So," she says, odiously cheerful, "How long does it take for someone to go gray after they die?"

4/

He gives her his patented (spoiler: it's not) are-you-on-drugs look before giving her the answer she seeks. She departs, content with her spoils, and he returns to his game in relief. But no, sweet Tweaders, it isn't to be. No, no. Haha. No.

5/

She returns with unseemly haste, just as his deprived fingers touch his keyboard.

"Let's say the wound is grievous. How quickly then? Wait. The wound is grievous but the wounds are blocked by the weapon so it drains super slow. How about THEN?"

The non-patented look again.
6/

She eventually departs, content. Now wise to the situation, AWH waits.

No surprise here - she's back. "OK. Let's say he's super dead. Is there anything particularly extra dead about a face besides being gray? Like, you look at a face and think, damn, that's a dead face?"
7/

A little more back and forth. She departs again, content, and he finally gets to play his game. Oh, Tweaders, it was such a delicious moment, and yet... and yet... well, you know what's going to happen, so let's keep moving.
8/

Her head pops back into his field of vision again. "So, exactly how much blood would be dripping down the body after about half an hour? Maybe an hour? How big is the pool of blood? Let's say I'm the body. Show me how much blood would be at my feet."
9/

And the poor, unfortunate, beleaguered, unsung hero of this rather gruesome and unexplained scene helps her yet again, patiently leading her with questions to find the appropriate answers.

How sweet. How noble. A paragon of virtue and patience.
10/

And then the scene gets tossed and none of the information ever ends up used because A Wild Writer has determined that it is absolute rubbish.

THE END

P.S. I feel bad for my husband, too.