A Neurotic

He was holding a cardigan. “It really is simple.”

She was sitting at the kitchen table. Her chin was down and her eyes up. 

“You see, when I am wearing it, I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Disturbed.”

“Precisely,” he said. “I work myself into a wonderful fit sometimes, and when I have to stop and say this or that,” he rotated his torso and the cardigan swayed left and right. “I fall right out of it, you know. My moods, you know how they are, they’re delicate. Well, I think it will solve some of our problems.” 

“Our problems.”