Last night my wife and I made love as usual. Nothing was amiss. She got up after to go tidy herself in the bathroom, I lay there looking at the goldfish tank and not really thinking about much. When she returned I hopped up and took my turn at the sink, rinsing and washing and drying. I heard her surprised shriek and rushed back. She was pointing at the center of the bed, where a nearly perfect inverted cone of white powder was stacked four inches high. I touched it and the cone crumbled quickly, and I knew immediately it was sheetrock and/or plaster dust.

"What the fuck honey?" my wife asked. I told her what it was, and immediately looked up at the ceiling to see if something had cracked. Nope.

"Mr. Splitfoot," I said. She rolled up the fitted sheet with the dust--she never could abide any litter or crumbs on the sheets--and took it downstairs. I pulled another from the closet and began working my way from corner to corner, each end popping off after I secured it as I secured the next. A lifelong frustration. The fish followed me in their tank, expectant.