Veralynne could not find the checkbook anywhere. She had looked through this top drawer at least four times already in the last half hour, but it seemed like the most likely place for it to be, so she was digging through the jumble of capless pens, restaurant wet wipes, stained take-out menus, and rolls of duct tape yet again, with no better luck than any other attempt. She hated that she was never sure where he had put things; whenever he was done with something he always seemed to have a new idea as to where it would best be kept.
Exasperated, she slammed the drawer shut again, looking around the kitchen, trying to hold down the feeling of panic, trying to think of someplace she had not already looked. She grabbed the step stool and dragged it over to the refrigerator. She clambered up to the second step to get a glimpse of the top and there it was, right in the middle, along with a half pack of Juicy Fruit and several crumpled receipts from the grocery store.
She grabbed the checkbook and sighed. In theory she could understand that it made sense to her six-foot-five-inch mate to stash common items up there, but she found it impossibly frustrating that after four years of marriage it never seemed to occur to him that this might not be convenient for his four-foot-nine-inch wife.
