Dot-dot-dot And

"Hey, are you going to be done with my computer soon, I want to...what's that." My husband peered over my shoulder, attempting to discern whether or not I was really doing schoolwork. I had demanded use of his computer two hours earlier, a thing he had acquiesced to readily enough...provided it was for a good damn reason.
"Thing m'professor sent," I replied, perhaps a bit smugly at being caught doing something right. "'sa link to a writing contest."
"Hm. You're entering?"
"Pahhhh." I waved him off and away. "No. Don't even have a thing for it. 'sides, it's the New York Times."
"...and?"
"AND." What and, my tone wanted to know. It's the New York Times. There is no dot-dot-dot and? to the New York Times when it comes to the question of writing a thing and sending it in.  But clearly, my darling husband, bright boy though he may be, was not quite comprehending the point my tone was trying to make. He stared. I stared back. "And I'm good, but I'm not that good."
"Your recent stuff has been that good," he said simply, and wandered away again. "Let me know when you're done with the computer," he called back to me, and the familiar noises of Katamari Damacy started up again.

I opened up Oregon Trail again (I'd minimized it when he walked into the room), but couldn't quite focus. The thing is, Chris doesn't compliment readily, or easily. He likes to mean things when he says them, which is why I tend to value nice things a bit higher when they come from him than when they come from anyone else. Especially when it comes to my writing.

"He's right, of course," said Nameless Figment, popping his head out from the shower stall. Why was he in the shower stall? I don't know. Just because a figment happens to have originated in my brain-backwaters doesn't mean I have reasons for everything they do.  They don't always explain themselves. This particular figment had been dogging me for months, refusing to answer to any name, providing commentary on everything that happened around him. "You should enter. Have either of you ever used this shower for the purpose for which it was built?"
"I'll lose, and no, that's where the mop and water bucket live. They like it there. It is their home. Do not take them from their home."
"So what if you lose? You'll definitely not win if you don't enter."
"I don't want to do what I do for money. Or competition," I argued instinctively.
"That is the biggest lie you've told in days."
"You think I should enter, SEBASTIAN?"
"I don't see how there could possibly be any...harm..."
"OH-HOH!" I didn't move from the chair, but in my head, there was a little me up and about and dancing. "SeBAStian, Sebastian, Sebastian-like-the-crab Sebastian-cause-you're-crabby..."
"Bach's middle name. Actually."
"THAT SUITS YOU. Bom, bom, bom, heavy heavy music go fugue-fugue, then suddenly BAM! TOCCATA! Anda S-name, you know how I like the S-names."
"I am not unaware." Was that a smile? He'll never admit to it, not now, not ever. "The subject at hand, however..."
"Yeah, yeah, I'll enter, I'll ENTER, SeBAAAAAStian!"
"Excellent. Then get to work."

So I did.