Last weekend, on Saturday morning, I got up and worked out at the Y (my second ever cycling class, and while it kicked my butt, it wasn’t as bad as my first cycling class which not so much kicked my butt as completely pulverized my quadriceps) and then came back home to find my darling husband still in bed.
“Good morning…” I said softly to him.
He sort of woke up, though his eyes were still closed, and we talked about insignificant morning-type things.
Then he said, “Aren’t you going to go back to talking like a black girl?”
Then he laughed. “Oh. I was dreaming. I dreamed you were black, and when you were sleepy you talked like a black girl but when you woke up you talked like a white girl.”