Scott woke up bolt-upright in bed Friday night. Alarmed, I ask him if everything was ok.
“I’m not sure,” he said. And, without further explanation, he got out of bed, walked into the bathroom, turned the light on, closed the door, and I heard the sink water running.
Puzzled, but too groggy to investigate further, I patiently waited for him to return.
He did, after only a minute or two in the bathroom. Again, I asked him if everything was ok.
His reply?
“Yeah, sorry. I thought my eyeball had exploded.”
And with that, we both went back to sleep.
The next morning, he explained quite logically that he had DREAMED his eyeball exploded, awoken with the sensation of blood on his hands and calmly walked to the bathroom to wash the blood off.
Dear Husband,
If ever again you think your eyeball may have exploded, please let me know. Washing the blood off your hands is probably not the highest priority in a situation like that. Plus, I love you enough to look at you at three in the morning and reassure you with a straight face that both eyes are as they should be. It would at least save you a trip to the bathroom.
Love,
Your wife Anne