What you told me was that you found him wrapped around the little kitchenette island thingy and that he was gurgling something about water.  Remember?  You told me.  You awoke to find he'd gotten out of bed and you checked under the bed to make sure there weren't any shenanigans going on 'cause he'd been funny lately about trying to scare you from dark corners.  You said he did this before, the whole wrapped-around-the-island-jobby-deal.  The gurgling, etc.  You thought, Where the hell is my husband?  You said you sometimes actually think 'husband' because you forget that you're bound with him and not just instinctively with him, just, you know, out of plain human magnetism, as if you never went through the ceremony or were proposed to on a genuflected knee or any of it and that you were just together, man and wife, and that that was all you knew.  Your words.  Last time it started with a bad haircut that you couldn't apprehend, and then the next morning he was a garden hose.  Later that night: a catamaran.  That lasted for thirty-three days and two hours.  So but back to the kitchen, yeah?  A bicycle this time.  Rusty chain and busted pedals.  You never saw a ten speed sweat before.  How long would this one last?  Longer?  What if he didn't stop?  Again, gurgling, throaty phlegmish pronouncements.  Water, oh god, please water, he said.  Whatever.  Then you were a free falling flood of running water all through the house, warping the wood floors to the moldings, so bad in fact that when they moved in the husband turned to his wife and said, 'Oh, this'll take much more work than we were told it would.'  
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