This means war.

I stared down at the glass container with an aggravated frown. Two left. I did the calculations and assessed that I use one each morning, and he uses two. Which meant when he woke up, he would use the last two in the jar.

And probably leave it empty.

I crossed my arms in silent defiance and refused to cave and refill the container. It was my silent declaration of Q-tip war.

I arrived home from work later that evening, anxious to see the enemy's move.

Ah, just as I predicted: he left it empty.

I mean, I get it. Six feet is a backbreaking distance from the bottom cupboard to have to bend down bi-monthly, pluck a handful of misdirected cotton swabs, stand back upright and place them in the glass container. I can see how it's a struggle.

I stood staring at the container again, hand on hips, and frowned for a minute.

Then I thought about how he had made dinner every night this week, mowed the lawn, and prepared my coffee when he had to leave for work at 2am to work the night shift.

So I bent down, plucked a handful of misdirected cotton swabs out of the bin, stood upright and placed them back in the glass container, with an amused grin on my face.

Relationships are about compromise, right?