Jeff: Hey. It smells like burning plastic.
Jeff: Do you smell that?
As he pried me from my drooly, pixelated Catalano embrace, I realized I did smell something. Something that reminded me of the time I set my hair on fire in my office bathroom.
Me: OMIGAH SOMETHING IS ON FIRE!!!!!
Jeff: Can you just check and see if anything is touching the radiator?
I was already stopped and dropped, so I rolled over to peer behind the cobwebs linking our headboard to the radiator. A large plastic bag full of my secret shame dry cleaning was wedged behind the chair that I use to hold my wadded-up laundry, but as far as I could tell it was not aflame.
Me: Are you sure it's coming from our apartment?
Jeff: I don't know, but it's pretty strong.
Me: IT SMELLS LIKE POISON GAS!!!!!!!!
Jeff: It's not gas. Gas has no smell.
Me: [High-pitched shriek]
Jeff: I'm going to go outside and see if it's coming from the street. Where are our sweatpants?
It is worth noting that at this point Jeff was wearing only the David boxer shorts I brought him back from Florence:
They've totally already paid for themselves.
A few minutes later...
Jeff: I could smell it outside and there were sirens, so it must be a fire somewhere else.
Me: Now I'm freaked out, though. What if we die in our sleep?
Jeff: Oh, baby. Come here.
I crawled into his arms, nestling my head on his shoulder.
Jeff: The only way you'll die in your sleep is if I kill you.
P.S. It's our third anniversary today. Magic = still there.