I’m walking down the hallway when the sound of girlish cackling makes me realize wife and gossipy neighbor are in the kitchen. In between peals of laughter, I think I hear the word ‘cleats’. I stop in my tracks, go all Jason Bourne, and start eavesdropping.
‘So I took his stupid soccer cleat with me and brought it to work so he couldn’t find it,’ she says, giggling at every word.
‘Good for you sister!’ says nosey neighbor, confirming my suspicions she spends her spare time watching Maury Povich instead of minding her brood of badly-behaved children.
‘But then I got into trouble with my boss,’ says wife, still barely able to speak in between her laughing.
‘How come?’
‘Well, I just shoved the cleat on the floor under my desk but the smell from it became so gross it started to stink up the whole office.’
More guffawing and the sound of wine glasses clinking in delight.
‘So where is it now?’ asks neighbor.
‘Oh, it’s in the trunk of my car,’ says wife casually. ‘It doesn’t matter though because hubby still thinks it’s at work.’
That’s all I need to hear. With Bourne-like stealth, I sidle back down the hallway, out the front door and into the driveway. I pop the trunk and there it is. My baby. My beauty. My missing Nike Superfly Mercurial Vapor, still caked in the same mud since it was kidnapped. I inhale the smell of it, the disgusting odor that saved the day and then I take back what's rightfully mine.
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