An actual conversation...

"Eric," I say, grabbing a fleece blanket off the back of Eric's futon as we head to the laundromat. "Does this blanket need washed?"

"No," Eric says, casting not even a look at the blanket and continuing toward the door.

Doubting eyebrow. "When's the last time you washed it?"

"Ummm." Less matter-of-fact now. A bit of a befuddled look comes on his face. Then the beginnings of a grin.

Never. That's the answer.

He's never washed the blanket.

Never.

We've been doing a lot of cleaning and sorting and trashing and things around Eric' loft these past couple of weeks. I try to remember that Eric's a boy--a 34-year-old bachelor man-boy, to be exact--and that, really, it could be a lot worse. And, to his credit, he's done a splendid job of making way for a woman in his home.

But I do tend to wrinkle my nose or looked shocked every now and then, despite my best efforts.

As was the case in the aforementioned blanket episode.

I shake my head at his never having washed a blanket. And at his goofy grin.

"Andi, what I was and what I am was enough to win you over." He thinks he's silenced me.

"Yes, Eric." (He's wrong.) "But what you are and how often you wash your sheets isn't enough to get me to sleep in the same bed with you."