It started as a joke. James and I were viewing a house—nicely finished, but the kitchen a bit small—when I made eye contact and popped a grape into my mouth. We laughed for ages afterwards.
Things escalated. Next time I pocketed a pen. Then a mug. Taking a shoe was particularly funny.
James, less amused, told me to stop. I tried. Instead, I started visiting houses alone, even after we had bought ours.
I’m leaving one now—I’ve decided this is the last time. I start the engine, then pause, hand floating. I don’t know how a manual works.