Out of Reach

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.

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