“Honey, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” my husband says as he lathers his hair with soap. He’s in the shower, and I’m standing on the outside yelling in.
“Earlier when I was bent over on the bed and we were making love, why did you stop and close the curtain?”
“Because I could see the bookkeeper’s car. I knew she’d be leaving soon and I didn’t want her to see my standing their naked,” he replied rinsing his hair at this point. “Why do you ask?”