We were staying in this
B&B in the
Deep South. It's all
Southern Gothic as could be. There's a white-haired widow who ran the place. A
mentally retarded great-aunt in the attic who roams about at night and makes up
stories about the
guests. And an
illegitimate octoon junkie stepdaughter who shows up at the
bow window at midnight, looking for money from a
trust. It's all very
complicated and I can't follow the
plot very well.
At one point, a Lego action figure shows up on the table in the room. What'sthis, I say. My wife says, that's the great-aunt. It's her player character, it means she likes you. She wants to be in your story.
And I feel a little put out that even when I'm sleeping, I need my wife to explain to me what's going on.