The weatherman informed his wife of a deadly storm.
"You must stop bringing your work home dear" she insisted.
She peeled off his bold grey suit, unhooked his tie, and folded up his spectacles.
He sat in fetching string vest and striped briefs.
Felt free.
"Maybe you're right, love" he said "maybe you're right."
His ankles became unpleasantly moist.
He noticed a newspaper floating through the living room.
"But then again..." he said, before his wife shushed him and climbed onto his lap.