We can't find the cheese.
It's not in, behind, or under the fridge. It's not in the microwave or blender. We haven't found it in a drawer, under a table or in my yarn collection.
"Is it this cheese?" Phillip asks, holding up an unopened Vermont extra sharp.
"No, it's the one we opened last night, remember?" I respond.
But he doesn't remember eating cheese. He barely remembers dinner. He was about to get a migraine so drank a couple quarts of water and went to bed early.
I had a second glass of wine while talking to my bosom friend.
Therefore we're both prime suspects for misplacing the cheese.
If it was Limburger - even Brie - we would have found it by now.
We'll keep you posted.