“Where are your keys?” Tom asks me, flipping through my baskets of junk-to-take-home by the back door.
Without looking up I indicate a heap of my clothes. “Clipped to my pants.”
Tom’s already spotted them, and he snags them from the belt loop. Heading toward the garage he throws back the inevitable snarky comment: “I could take your pants, but I’ll be nice and just take the keys.”
“Where are your keys?” I ask. Since we just spent the greater part of the evening searching the house for them it’s a fair question, if a loaded one.
“Upstairs—in my pants. I just wanted to get my book out of the car.”
I shrug, turning back to my own reading. “Well, as long as we both know where our keys are.”
Tom grins. “No, no. The important thing is that we both know where our pants are.”