We were a post-dinner still life: I was planted on the couch and Gary was in the chair. At some point after dinner I tidied up. I resumed my position and didn't move again until Gary went for the chips.
"Don't eat all the chips," I scolded, because he does that: if he starts on
something he eats it till it's gone, and I never see it again.
He stopped munching long enough to throw a chip at me and say, "There. I didn't eat that one."
I laughed; that was my mistake. I hadn't pulled the first chip out of my hair before he added, "Or that one," and another chip hit my head. And it was on.
It was the way he kept up the patter alternating with the volley of chips. (Chip flies at me.) "There's another chip I didn't eat." (Chip.) "And there's another." (Chip.) "I didn't eat this one either." (Chip.) "Or any of these." (Chips.) "Oh! Here's a whole bunch of chips I didn't eat." (Rain of chips.)
I couldn't breathe from laughing, but at some point I gathered up all the ammunition and threw them all back, so he had to escalate to shaking the bag on me.
I choked out, "I am not cleaning that up."
And I didn't. He must have, because there are no chips on the floor any more.