“Do I have a flat head?” he asked.
The question was from the proverbial blue left field. It certainly had naught to do with what was going on (which was going to the store) (for groceries) (snacks, if they were honest) (he was driving), or what they’d been talking about (movies) (Parasite and Uncut Gems).
“No,” she said. “You have a perfect head. It’s a perfect shape and size. I’ve always admired the shape of your head.”
He nodded, then said something about worrying about it, which was why he was combing his hair differently (she hadn’t noticed). She half-listened, instead thinking how easy it’d been for her to lie.
But that’s what was learned, during forty years of keeping a marriage alive.