My late husband had files litter his desk. They were marked electricity, water, tax, telephone, home, pension, land and so on. The desk looked unsightly. The files attracted dust like a magnet. Daily I had to clean it, picking things, and then putting them back. There was no place left for his cup of tea even.
I wanted them to be put on a shelf in the closet. He could take them out when required. He wouldn’t listen, and would look annoyed when I nagged. I was the person cleaning his desk, and every time I did it, my fingers itched to remove them from there, and whisk them away.
One day I took courage in my own hands, and did it, inviting dear husband’s wrath upon myself. He blew it. I walked away from his fury (insides quaking) at my meddling, and left him fuming in rage.
I expected the files back in place on his desk. Strangely it didn’t happen. He gave me a sheepish smile when I called him for lunch. That was his way of apology. An answering smile lit my face, but remembering his unjust wrath wiped it away before he could see it. He didn’t deserve my smile.
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