Their one-on-one celebration lasted into the wee hours, and she thought surely they’d sleep til noon, but sometime pre-dawn, the neighbors’ dog barked up a storm, and she couldn’t get back to sleep. Tom, of course, was out like a light. Giselle got up, thinking a cup of coffee, but got distracted by Tom’s socks on the kitchen floor. She picked them up and dropped them in the laundry basket, and then, on a whim, decided to start a load. She took the basket down to the basement, and again on a whim, counted the items of clothing she put into the washing machine, something she’d never done before.

“Twenty-three,” she said to herself as she latched the door. But just before pushing the button, she stopped herself, slipped off her panties, and added them to the load. Something satisfying about that. She pressed the button and the machine started to fill.

About to head back upstairs, she paused. Something about the sound of the stream, a placid sizzle, spurred a naughty thought—doing the family wash back when she was a teen. Hopping up on the machine and letting the churn of it have its way with her. Just for fun, she told herself, and she hopped up.

No, I’m too old for this nonsense, she decided. But still ... No. Maybe next time. She went upstairs.

Tom was up, standing at the kitchen sink, washing the wine glasses from last night. “Doing the laundry this early?” he asked.

“I am,” she confessed. “Hey, want to guess how many pieces of laundry? Counting each sock individually.”

“Huh?”

She repeated the question.

Tom considered for a moment. “Twenty-four.”

“Oh my God.”

“I’m right?”

“I don’t believe it.” Giselle frowned. “But you know what?”

“What?”

“Your PJ bottoms should really go in.”

“They should?”

“Uh huh. There’s still time.”

“You just want to spoil my winning count,” Tom said.

“No, no. These really need to...” She tried to yank down Tom’s PJ bottoms, but there was a snag.

She investigated.

Turned out, there was not still time.