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Adrian scarfed down most of the biscuits and then went off to the bathroom to get ready first while I worked on cleaning up our breakfast mess and folding the clothes he washed. I contemplate putting his clothes in my room, but decide to just leave them on the couch in a neat pile so he can take them out to his car later.

His moaning and groaning in the shower leads me to believe that he’s having a harder time getting the marker off his face than I did to mine.

He came out in just a towel after a few minutes, a deep scowl on his goofy-looking face.

“How the heck did you get this shit off?” The marks are rubbed red and raw, but still very much in place. I giggle at his frustration.

“Here, come on. I’ll do it.” I grabbed his hand and led him back into the bathroom, grabbed the make-up removing wipes, and the baby oil, set him on the closed toilet and got to work ridding him of my artwork.

He gets a little handsy while I work, but I try my best to ignore him. Adrian undoes my bathro