He thought he’d sleep better after she came home, yet their first night he was wide awake. His hips hurt, and his shoulder. He’d grown used to having the whole bed to himself and felt crowded. He was shifting to find the right position when she murmured with pleasure and said clearly, gaily, as if responding to a remark at a party, “That’s funny.”
He waited, alert, hoping for a clue to the context. She mumbled something and rolled over, and soon she was under again.
That’s funny. That’s remarkable, or odd, ironic. With only the one line to go on, he had no idea what it might mean. She’d seemed amused and interested, and the throaty, almost carnal murmur, as if she were flirting, fawning. It was probably nothing, part of a harmless dream, except, knowing her voice so well, he had the distinct impression that she wasn’t speaking to him.