The other day, upon reaching the top stair, I realized that my husband, who had been climbing the stairs behind me, had stopped before the landing.
“Need something?” I asked, glancing back over the railing at him.
“Because you climbed halfway up the stairs and stopped,” I explained the unnecessary.
“Technically, I am not halfway up the stairs,” he corrected me, which one might argue was also unnecessary. “I’m five-fourteenths up the stairs.”
I just looked at him.
“Which is just a little over a third,” he added.
I continued to simply look at him.
Then a second voice drifted from the far corner of the living room, “He is technically correct.”
Technically, the antics of my husband and his minion, Younger, have not yet driven me to complete insanity.
But the fraction is growing.